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THE

FALSE CHEVALIER

OR

The Lifeguard of Marie Antoinette

BY

W. D. LIGHTHALL

F. E. GRAFTON & SONS

MONTREAL

1898

_This Edition is intended for circulation only in the Dominion of
Canada._

[Illustration: THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES
_After the contemporary acquarelle by Portail._]

(_All rights reserved_)

To

CYBEL, MY WIFE,

THE SWEET COMPANION AND CRITIC
OF MY LABOURS ON
THIS BOOK




CONTENTS


CHAP.

I. THE FUR-TRADER'S SON

II. GERMAIN IN FRANCE

III. THE INNKEEPER'S LESSON

IV. THE CASTLE OF QUIET WATERS

V. MONSIEUR DE REPENTIGNY

VI. EPERGNES AND WAX-LIGHTS

VII. "THE LEAP IS TAKEN"

VIII. THE ABBE'S DISASTER

IX. A PHILOSOPHER BEHIND HORSE-PISTOLS

X. THE GALLEY-ON-LAND

XI. THE COURT

XII. GERMAIN GOES TO PARIS

XIII. A JAR IN ST. ELPHEGE

XIV. THE OLD-IRON SHOP

XV. THE BEGGARS' BALL

XVI. BROKEN ON THE WHEEL

XVII. THE SAVING OF LA TOUR

XVIII. MADAME L'ETIQUETTE

XIX. THE COMMISSION

XX. DESCAMPATIVOS

XXI. THE SHADOW OF THE GOLDEN DOG

XXII. THE SECRET OUT

XXIII. THE EXECUTIONER OF DESTINY

XXIV. A CURIOUS PROFESSION

XXV. FACING THE MUSIC

XXVI. A DUEL

XXVII. JUDE AND THE GALLEY

XXVIII. ANOTHER DUEL

XXIX. THE LETTRE DE CACHET

XXX. THE HEAVENS FALL

XXXI. ONE DEFENDER

XXXII. A STRONG PROOF

XXXIII. THE REGISTER OF ST. GERMAIN-DES-PRES

XXXIV. AT QUEBEC

XXXV. AT ST. ELPHEGE

XXXVI. AT MONTREAL

XXXVII. ONCE MORE THE SWORD

XXXVIII. THE RECORD

XXXIX. THE MARQUIS'S VISITOR

XL. AN UNEXPECTED ALLIANCE

XLI. A POOR ADVOCATE

XLII. A HARD SEASON

XLIII. BACK AT EAUX TRANQUILLES

XLIV. SELF-DEFENCE

XLV. THE NECESSITIES OF CONDITION

XLVI. THE PATRIOTS

XLVII. THE DEFENCE OF THE BODYGUARD

XLVIII. SISTERS DEATH AND TRUTH

XLIX. CIVIC VIRTUE

L. JUDGMENT DAY

LI. LOVE ENDURETH ALL THINGS

LII. THE SUPREME EXACTITUDE

LIII. RETRIBUTION ACCOMPLISHED




PREFATORY NOTE


This story is founded on a packet of worm-eaten letters and documents
found in an old French-Canadian house on the banks of the St. Lawrence.
The romance they rudely outline, its intrigues, its brilliancy of
surroundings, its intensity of feelings, when given the necessary
touches of history and imagination, so fascinated the writer that the
result was the present book. A packet of documents of course is not a
novel, and the reader may be able to guess what is mine and what is
likely to have been the scanty limit of the original hint.

The student of history will recognise my debt to many authorities; among
whom the chief are Paul Lacroix and Taine. I wish it distinctly
understood that the person attacked in the documents in question is not
the hero of this narrative.

W. D. L.




THE FALSE CHEVALIER




CHAPTER I

THE FUR-TRADER'S SON


The son of the merchant Lecour was a handsome youth, and there was great
joy in the family at his coming home to St. Elphege. For he was going to
France on the morrow; it was with that object that his father had sent
to town for him--the little walled town of Montreal.

It was evening, early in May, of the year 1786. According to an old
custom of the French-Canadians, the merchant, surrounded by his family,
was bestowing upon his son the paternal blessing. It was a touching
sight--the patriarchal ceremony of benediction.

The father was a fine type of the peasant. His features might, in the
strong chiaroscuro of the candle-light, have stood as model for some
church fresco of a St. Peter. His dress was of grey country homespun,
cut in a long coat, and girded by a many- arrow-pattern sash,
and on his feet he wore a pair of well-worn beef-skin mocassins.

The son was some twenty years of age, and his mien and dress told of the
better social advantages of the town. Indeed, his costume, though
somewhat worn, had marks of good fashion.

His younger sister (for he had two, of whom one was absent), and his
mother, a lively, black-eyed woman, who dressed and bore herself
ambitiously for her station, gazed on him in fond pride as he knelt.

"My son," the merchant said reverently, his hands outstretched over his
boy, "the Almighty keep and guard thee; may the blessing of thy father
and thy mother follow thee wherever thou goest."

"Amen," the son responded.

He rose and stood before his parent with bent head.

The old man exhorted him gravely on the dangers before him--on the
ruffians and lures of Paris, and the excitements of youth. He warned him
to attend to his religious duties, and to do credit to his family and
their condition in life by respectful and irreproachable conduct. "Never
forget," he concluded, in words which the young man remembered in after
years, "that the Eternal Justice follows us everywhere, and calls us to
exact account, either on earth or in the after life, for all our acts."

But here Lecour's solemn tone ceased, and he continued--"Now, Germain, I
must explain to you more closely the business on which I have sent for
you so suddenly. The North-West Company, who, as you know, command the
fur-trade of Canada, have word that a new fashion just introduced into
Paris has doubled the demand for beaver and tripled the price. They are
hurrying over all their skins by their ship which sails in ten days to
London from Quebec. I have space on a vessel which goes direct to Dieppe
the day after to-morrow, and can therefore forestall them by about two
weeks. I have gathered my winter stock into the boats you will see at
our landing; and your mother, who has always been so eager to send you
to France, has persuaded me to have you as my supercargo. Go, my boy; it
is a great opportunity to see the world."

"Yes, my Germain, at last," wife Lecour exclaimed joyfully, throwing her
arms around his neck, "at last you will set eyes on Versailles, and my
dreams about you will come true!"

The youth himself was in a daze of smiles and tears.

The chamber in which they were was the living-room of the house. Its low
ceiling of heavy beams, its spotlessly sanded floor, carpeted with
striped _catalogne_, its pine table, and home-made chairs of elm, were
common sights in the country. But a tall, brass-faced London clock in
one corner, a cupboard fuller than usual of blue-pattern stone-ware in
another, a large copper-plate of the "Descent from the Cross," and an
ebony and ivory crucifix on the walls, were indications of more than
average prosperity.

So thin was population throughout Canada in those days that to leave the
banks of the St. Lawrence almost anywhere was to leave human habitation.
The hamlet of St. Elphege was part of the half-wild parish of
Repentigny. The cause of its existence was its position some miles up
the Assumption, as a gateway of many smaller rivers tributary to the
latter, which itself was tributary to the River of Jesus; and that in
turn, less than a mile further on, to the vast St Lawrence. It
flourished on the trade of wandering tribes from up the Achigan, the
Lac-Ouareau, the St Esprit, and the Rouge, and on the sale of supplies
to rude settlers above and the farmers below. It flourished by the
energy of one man--this man, its founder, the Merchant Lecour. He had
started life with small prospects; his ideas were of the simplest, and
he was at first even a complete stranger to writing and figures. In his
youth a common soldier in the levies of the Marquis de Montcalm on the
campaigns towards lake Champlain, he had acquired favour with his
colonel by his steadiness, had been given charge of a canteen, and in
dispensing brandy to his comrades had found it possible to sell a few
small articles. The defence of New France against the British collapsed
on the investiture of Montreal by Sir Jeffrey Amherst in 1760. The
French army surrendered, and part of it was shipped back to the
motherland. Lecour remained, and shouldering a pedlar's pack, plodded
about the country selling red handkerchiefs, sashes, and jack-knives to
the peasantry. Being attracted by the convenience of the portage for
dealings with the Indians of the north, he selected a spot in the forest
and built a little log dwelling. Success followed from the first.
Beaver-skins rose into fabulous demand in Europe for cocked hats, and
made the fortunes of all who supplied them. The streams behind Lecour's
post were teeming with beaver-dams. He easily kept his monopoly of the
trade, and several times a year would send a fleet of boats down to
Quebec, which returned with goods imported from Europe. Finally he
extended his dealings throughout the Province into varied branches of
business, and "the Merchant of St. Elphege" became a household name with
the French-Canadians. The home of the Lecours--half dwelling, half
vaulted warehouse--was one of four capacious provincial stone cottage
buildings, standing about a quadrangular yard, each bearing high up on
its peak a date and brief inscription, one of which read "A Dieu la
Gloire!"--"To God the Glory."

Just at the end of the family scene previously described, a noise was
heard without, the latch was lifted, and a troop of Lecour's neighbours
and dependants pushed in, an old fiddler at their head, who, clattering
forward in _sabots_, removed his blue _tuque_ from his head, and
politely bowed to Lecour.

"Father," he said, "these young people ask your permission to give a
dance in honour of Monsieur Germain."

The Lecours appreciated the honour; the room was cleared, music struck
up, and festivity was soon in progress. What a display of neat ankles
and deft feet in mocassins! What a clattering of _sabots_ and shuffling
of "beefs"! The perspiration rolled off the brow of the musician, and
young Lecour was whirling round like a madcap with the daughter of the
ferryman of Repentigny, when the latch was again lifted, and the door
silently opened.

Every woman set up a shriek. The threshold was crowded with Indians in
warpaint!

All the settlers knew that paint and its dangers.

The dancers drew back to one side of the room, and some opened the door
of the warehouse adjoining and took refuge in its vaulted shadows. But
Lecour himself, the former soldier, was no man to tremble. "Come in," he
said, without betraying a trace of any feeling.

Seven chiefs stalked grimly across the floor in single file, carrying
their tomahawks and knives in their hands, their great silver treaty
medals hanging from their necks, and their brightly dyed eagle feathers
quivering above their heads, and six sat down opposite Lecour on the
floor. Their leader, Atotarho, Grand Chief of Oka, stood erect and
silent, an expression of warlike fierceness on his face.

"Atotarho!" exclaimed the merchant.

"It is I," the Grand Chief answered. "Where is the young man?"

"Here," replied Germain, stepping forward with a sangfroid which pleased
his father. He faced the powerful Indian.

Atotarho shook his tomahawk towards the ceiling, uttered a piercing
war-whoop, and commenced to execute the war-dance, chanting this song in
his native Six-Nation tongue--

     "Our forefathers made the rule and said: 'Here they are to kindle a
     fire; here at the edge of the woods.'"

One of the chiefs drummed on a small tom-tom. The chant continued--

     "Show me the man!

     "Hail, my grandsires; now hearken while your grand-children cry
     unto you, you who established the Great League. Come back, ye
     warriors, and help us.

     "Come back, ye warriors, and sit about our Council. Lend us your
     magic tomahawks. Lend us your arrows of flint. Lend us your knives
     of jade. I am the Great Chief, but ye are greater chiefs than I.

     "Of old time the nations wandered and warred.

     "Ye were wonderful who established the Great Peace.

     "Assuredly six generations before the pale-faces appeared, ye
     smoked the redstone pipe together, giving white wampum to show that
     war would cease.

     "Thenceforth ye bound the nations with a Silver Chain; ye built the
     Long House; ye established the Great League.

     "First Hiawatha of the Onondaga nation proposed it; then
     Dekanawidah of the Mohawks joined him; then Atotarho, my mighty
     ancestor.

     "First the Mohawks; then their younger brothers, the Oneidas,
     joined them; then the Cayugas; then the Onondagas, then the
     Senecas; and then the Tuscaroras were added. Victorious were the
     SIX NATIONS!"

With a piercing cry of triumph the chiefs sprang up and brandished their
tomahawks.

     "Then we took the sons of the Wyandots, the Eries, the Algonquins.
     Wherever we found the son of a brave man we adopted him. Wherever
     we found a brave man we made him a chief.

     "Here is the son of a brave man, our friend. Let us adopt him. Be
     ye his grandsires, oh ye chiefs of old!

     "He is a brave man; let us make him a chief. Our forefathers said:
     'Thither shall he be led by the hand, and shall be placed on the
     principal seat.'

     "Smoke the peace-pipe with us, chiefs of old, Hiawatha,
     Dekanawidah, Atotarho, us who bear your names, to-day, being
     descended of your blood through the line of the mother."

     "Brighten the Silver Chain, extend the Long House, smoke the magic
     pipe, sharpen his tomahawk, for he is a son of your League, and
     shall sit with you in the Council for ever, bearing the name of
     Arahseh, 'Our Cousin,' and the totem of the Wolf.

     "Smoke the peace-pipe, Arahseh, 'Our Cousin.'"

The tom-tom beat furiously and the six chiefs leaping up and circling
round Germain, struck the air with their tomahawks and cried together--

    "Continue to listen
    Ye who are braves;
    Ye who established the Great League,
    Continue to listen."

They gave the peace-pipe to Germain, and again seating themselves in
semicircle, gravely passed it from lip to lip.

Gradually the settlers during these rites began to learn by those who
understood Iroquois, the friendly nature of the fierce-looking actions
of the savages and gazed with delight while the merchant's son was made
a chief.

Thus out of a semi-savage corner of the world Germain Lecour was
launched on his voyage to Europe, which commenced at the head of the
boats of his father next morning when the dawn first carmined the sky
through the forests.




CHAPTER II

GERMAIN IN FRANCE


Along the highway through the ancient Forest of Fontainebleau, the coach
of the Chevalier de Bailleul, carven and gilt in elegant forms of the
reign of Louis XVI., and driven with the spirit that belonged to the
service of a grand seigneur, sped forward.

Within, the frank old soldier sat, fresh from the royal hunt at the
Palace; and on his breast coruscated the crimson heart and white rays of
the Great Star of St. Louis, the reward of distinguished service.

Suddenly the horses wheeled round and stopped to drink at a small
stream, which gushed into a natural basin by the roadside. A mounted
young man was about to water his animal at the basin, but noticing the
equipage stopping, he backed out and gave up his place, at the same time
raising his hat.

The Chevalier never ignored a politeness. Laying his hand on the window
frame he saluted the rider, and it was in this glance that his eye
caught sight of the sword-strap of the rapier at the rider's side.
For--strangely out of place in that longitude--this was a piece of
snow-white fawn-skin; embroidered in fantastic colours, woven with
porcupine quills; and adorned with a clan totem, known only in the
region of the River St. Lawrence.

He looked up promptly to the bearer's face. So bright was the expression
of the youth, so fine was his make, so lissome his seat on his chafing
horse, that the old man thought he had never seen a picture more martial
or handsome. A portrait of the rider would have represented a
countenance full of intelligence, a manly bearing, dark eyes, hair jet
black, and the complexion clear. He wore a dark red coat and a black hat
bordered with silver.

De Bailleul spoke.

"May I ask," said he, with the charming manners of the courtier,
"Monsieur's name and country, so that I may link them with the service
just done me?"

"The trifle merits no notice, sir," the youth answered respectfully. "My
name is Germain Lecour, of Repentigny, in Canada."

"Canada!" exclaimed the Chevalier warmly. "This is good fortune, indeed.
It was my lot to have once done service for the king in that country,
since which time every Canadian is my brother. And you live in
Repentigny? That is near Montreal?"

"Eight leagues below, on the River of L'Assomption, Monsieur."

"Nearly thirty years ago I left your land. To hear fresh news of it
would give me the greatest satisfaction of my life. Are you at one of
the inns here at Fontainebleau? Yes? Let me offer you the shelter of my
house, Eaux Tranquilles, which is less that a league forward. My name is
the Chevalier de Bailleul, sir. If you permit it I shall send
immediately for your luggage."

The horseman, blushing, protested that the honour was too great.

"The honour and favour are to me," replied the Chevalier.

Lecour gave in with visible joy and named his inn. The two lifted their
hats and parted with the profoundest bows. The Chevalier, as his
carriage once more sped forward, found himself no less pleased than the
other. The embroidered sword-strap and overshadowing trees conjure up
for him an hour of the past where he, a young lieutenant, is leading a
little column of white-coats through a forest defile in America. The
Indian scouts suddenly come gliding in, the fire of an enemy is heard,
little spots of smoke burst on the mountain side and dissolve again.
Shrill yells resound on every hand, brown arms brandish flashes of
brightness. The young commander rises to the emergency. His white-coats
are rapidly placed in position behind trees, and a battle is
proceeding.




CHAPTER III

THE INNKEEPER'S LESSON


The chief inn of Fontainebleau town was a rambling galleried quadrangle
of semi-deserted buildings situated on the Rue Basse, and bearing the
sign of "The Holy Ghost."

This town, in the heart of the woods, had no other sources of livelihood
than a vegetable market for the Palace, the small wants of the
wooden-shoed foresters and of the workmen employed by the Master of
Woods and Waters in planting new trees, and those of the crowd of
strangers who flocked to the place during five or six weeks in the
autumn of each year, when the king and Court arrived for the pleasures
of the hunt.

The host of the inn--formerly an assistant butler in Madame du Barry's
hotel at Versailles, was a sharp, sour-natured old fellow, truculent and
avaricious. The spine of this man was a sort of social barometer; by its
exact degree of curvature or stiffness in the presence of a guest the
stable-boys and housemaids knew whether his rank was great or small, and
whether, to please their cantankerous master, they were to fly or walk
at his beck, or in the case of a mere bourgeois, to drink his wine on
the way to his room.

Germain, on first arriving a few days previously, found himself in an
atmosphere of Oriental abjectness; for when the Rouen diligence drove
through the inn gateway, and mine host at his pot-room window remarked
his smart belongings, his landlord soul settled him as a person of
quality. But when the innkeeper had thought it out for an hour over his
wine, his attitude became one of doubt.

"No valet, no people," he muttered, "this fish then is no noble, and
yet, by his mien, no bourgeois. Luggage scanty, dress fine. What is he?
Gambler of Paris? Swiss? Italian? No, he speaks French, but without the
Court accent. By that he is none of _our_ people--that is one point
fixed. A prodigal son, then? Parbleu, I must make him pay in advance."

"Sir," said the landlord, knocking at the door of Germain's room, and
then stepping in rather freely, "I regret to tell you that it is the
rule in Fontainebleau for travellers to pay in advance."

"How much?" replied Germain, pulling out a purse full of pistoles.

The rascal was taken aback.

"I was about to say," said he, retreating, "that though such is the
rule, I am making of your honour an exception."

And he disappeared to further correct his speculations upon the visitor.
"Some little spendthrift of the provinces, I wager," was his next
conclusion. He instructed the senior stable-boy to go in and light three
candles, and chalked up the guest for nine. He also began to concoct his
bill. The household thenceforth took small liberties with Lecour's
orders.

Next day the landlord, when Monsieur was about to mount the handsomest
horse which could be hired in the town, again quitted his post of
observation at the pot-room window and advanced. He knew the animal and
its saddlery; his suave smile reappeared, and his back bent a little as
he noticed with the eye of an expert Germain's ease in his seat.

"Monsieur desires to see the Court, no doubt? He knows, perhaps, that it
does not arrive till Thursday?"

"Indeed. Tell me about the doings of the Court. I have never heard about
it."

A triumphant, hard expression came over Boniface's visage. He looked up
at his guest, straightened himself, turned his back, and went into the
house.

"What," he muttered, "I, the entertainer of counts of twenty quarterings
and the neighbour of a king--am I to have a plebeian in my house so
peasant that he ignores the topic of _all_ society? He shall feel that
he does not impose on Fontainebleau."

Germain's apartment, situated in front of the house, consisted of two
rooms fitted up with some elegance, and both looking out upon the
market-place and church. He was now told that these quarters were
engaged by "persons of quality to whom Monsieur would doubtless give
place in the usual manner." He submitted without protest, and accepted
uncomplainingly the inferior chamber assigned to him on the courtyard in
the rear.

The little town shortly began to fill with liveliness and tradesmen. A
fine carriage drove up before the inn, its horses ridden by postillions,
and followed by two mounted grooms. Three young noblemen, brothers, of
an exceedingly handsome type, alighted. The keeper of the "Holy Ghost"
and his two rows of servants grovelled before them in a body and
conducted them to the best suites within, including that taken from
Germain.

It was next morning that the latter met de Bailleul.

His host now placed the final insult upon him. At dinner he motioned him
roughly to sit at the table of the rustics.

Germain refused; he was paying for better.

The landlord angrily resisted. The Canadian, now aroused, for he saw at
last the intention to slight him, stopped, laid his hand significantly
on the hilt of his sword, and looked at the man. That motion in those
days had but one meaning. He was let alone.

Within an hour the coach of the Chevalier drove in for him and his
baggage. The sycophant recognised the arms on the panel and collapsed.
Yet that hour's reflection on the innkeeper's conduct woke Lecour to the
power of rank in old Europe.




CHAPTER IV

THE CASTLE OF QUIET WATERS


Having added to his toilet the special elegance of powdering his hair,
arrayed himself in his finest flowered waistcoat, and critically
disposed his laces, Germain took seat in de Bailleul's coach and was
driven away.

As the horses flew along another new feeling came to him. The
distinction of a familiar visit with a real "great lord" elated him as
_debutantes_ are elated by their first ball. He was no snob, only a very
natural young man entering life. He dreamt that he was transferred from
the ignoble class to the noble, and in the fancy felt himself lifted to
some inconceivable level above the people who passed by. Half a dozen
peasants, bronzed and sweaty and trudging in a group, meeting him, took
off their hats. One of them said in his hearing: "Baptiste, there is one
of the white-wigs."

The carriage rolled through the forest, then out into the open country,
and shortly after turned under a stately gate of gilded ironwork, and
the grounds of Eaux Tranquilles were entered. The chateau was a mansion
of smooth, light sandstone, having four towers at the corners. A
turreted side-wing, bridging over water, united it with a more ancient
castle which stood, walled in white and capped in black, in the midst of
a small lake. In front were gardens; in rear a terrace, and below it a
lawn bordered on one side by the lake, on the opposite shore of which a
park of poplars, birches, and elms extended, producing, by shading the
water, a serenity which doubtless had given the estate its name.

The last light of afternoon, that most beautiful of all lights, fell
upon the towers, and long shadows swept across the gardens.

Lecour thought it glorious.

In a few moments he and his host were seated at tea. The lofty
window-doors stood open to let in the June zephyrs. With the two wigged
and liveried servants attending, the scene to Lecour seemed the acting
of a beautiful charade, the introduction to an unreal existence.

De Bailleul noted the delicacy of his hand and the tastefulness of his
violet-tinted coat.

"Let us talk of Canada," said he. "I have no friends yet to offer you,
though you shall have some young dogs like yourself very soon. What do
you like?--riding, hunting, a quiet minuet on the terrace, eh? Ah me,
the coquettes of Quebec! I well remember them."

Germain expressed gratitude for the amusements offered.

"I will tell you why I love Canada," continued the Chevalier. "It was
there that I passed my military youth. Have you ever eaten Indian
bean-cake?"

"I have tasted it."

"And that was enough, eh? But I have lived on it for eight weeks in an
Iroquois village. Yes, eight weeks bean-cake was the most horrible of my
experiences, except when I saw the hand of an unfortunate Potawatomie
turn up in an Abenaki broth-pot. Do you remember General Montcalm?"

"I was not born in his time."

"I saw him die, and heard him refuse to let the women of Quebec weep
for him. Montcalm, sir, was the last hero of France. They glorify
Lafayette, but between ourselves Lafayette is more the drum-major than
the general."

"The lost children of France do not forget the defender of Quebec."

"But who now passes from there to here? The _noblesse_ of the colony
sank embracing each other on the luckless ship _Auguste_ in which they
fled to France. Alas, my friends so brave and so lovely! Ah, Varennes
and La Verandrye, and you my poor Lady de Meziere! Senneville also, my
dearest friend," he murmured, speaking to the spirits. "La Corne alone
escaped. Pardon me, Monsieur. Who is now Seigneur of Berthier?"

"Captain Cuthbert."

"In place of the Courthillaux! And of Repentigny?"

"General Christie."

"In place of Le Gardeurs! And of Longueuil?"

"Captain Grant."

"In the stead of the Le Moynes!"

"He married one of them and calls himself Baron de Longueuil."

"An Englishman Baron of Longueuil! Shades of Le Moyne d'Iberville! And
what of La Corne, who used to put on warpaint and dance around the
council fires waving a tomahawk against the English?"

"Good old Colonel La Corne! He is now a loyal subject of the king of
Great Britain, and very distinguished in the late American war."

"My God, what impossibilities within thirty years!"

Lecour, finding that the Chevalier was eager for a general account of
all Canadian beaux and dames, did his best to respond. De Bailleul's cup
ran over.

"Do you know," he exclaimed, "I have never met any people like the
Canadians. When Montcalm was general, I commanded a certain detachment
towards Lake Champlain. Through how many leagues of forest, over how
many cedar swamps and rocky hills, across how many icy torrents did my
bronzed woodmen not toil! We made beds from boughs of spruce, our walls
were the forest, our roofs were the skies. Many a day we fasted the
twenty-four hours. More than once we ate our mocassins. 'Twas all for
France. Ah, if our young men at Versailles had that to do, they would
have to be different persons. I have no respect for these warriors of
hair-powder and lace, who wear stays and learn to march from the
dancing-master. Give me a people bred in the lap of wild nature and
among whom the paths to reputation are courage and intelligence! Give
me----"

Lecour saw that the Canada of the good man was an idealised picture, but
he admired his affection and asked permission to drink his health. They
touched glasses.

"Tell me about your own people, my young friend. Who is your father?"

"A country merchant, sir."

"A well-to-do one, then, I judge."

"He has prospered so well as to be reputed rich for a colony."

"And you live at St. Elphege? In my time it was only a carrying-place
for canoes, to avoid the rapid."

"My father is the founder of the little place. He is known throughout
our Province as 'The Merchant of St. Elphege.'"

"An honourable title, based on an honourable record no doubt. Would that
we rightly respected trade in France. That is one of the nation's
weaknesses. You have a mother and brothers?"

"A mother and two sisters--one married, the other at a convent in
Quebec. My brother-in-law assists my father. We are very humble people."

"Why have you come to France?"

"Because I have admired it since a child, from my mother's stories at
her knee."

"She came from France, then?"

"No, sir, but she was housekeeper in the house of Governor the Marquis
de Beauharnois."

When he said this the youth blushed.

"How is it your accent is so good? It is quite that of our gentry."

"I learnt it at the Little Seminary, from the priests, who are gentlemen
of Paris. There also the best families send their boys, and we young men
grew up together. I have lived a little in Montreal too."

"Ah, what is Montreal now like? Are the town walls still standing?"

"They surround the city, but the commander-in-chief talks of replacing
them by avenues and a Champ de Mars."

"The British garrison of course occupies the Arsenal, the British flag
flies from the Citadel. Where does the British Governor reside?"

"At the Chateau de Ramezay."

"But why not at the Chateau de Vaudreuil, where Governor de Vaudreuil
dwelt? It was larger and its gardens finer."

"That now belongs to Monsieur de Lotbiniere."

"De Lotbiniere! the new Marquis! Lucky devil; but blue death, what
changes!"

They rose and strayed into the gardens.

"I seem to find in you already," said the warm-hearted old Chevalier,
"one whom I love. There is something frank in your eyes which raises
memories of my dead son. In you I see both my offspring's and my own
youth recalled to me. You are Canadian--in you I can banish the
coldness, hollowness, and degeneracy of Europe. Replace my boy. Let me
call you 'Germain' and 'son.'"

The bar of evening glow was fading in the west and twilight falling on
the walks. A chill breeze seemed to inspire a question, which Germain
began.

"But----?"

"There is some hindrance then?" exclaimed the Chevalier in a
disappointed voice.

"Alas, does your honour, perhaps, forget the differences of birth?"

"Differences of birth, my Germain, are illusions; you have the reality."

"Would that I had the illusion," thought poor Lecour.




CHAPTER V

MONSIEUR DE REPENTIGNY


For several days he revelled in exploring Eaux Tranquilles. He became
familiar with the paths of the gardens, the different statues and
fountains. Sweet odours continually seemed to fill his breathing. He sat
dreaming in the trellised vineries, or wandered with his host along the
walks overhung by carefully trimmed shade-trees. Sometimes he would
ramble in the park, which occupied about a mile of hill across the mere;
sometimes he strolled curiously about in the old castle, along devious
passages and from chamber to chamber, wondering at its heavily
tapestried walls, its gloomy dungeons with the water lapping just
beneath, its small windows painted with little coats of arms, and its
walls ten feet thick.

One of his strong recommendations in the eyes of de Bailleul was that he
knew a fine horse and how to ride him. The Chevalier, being lord of a
large extent of country, and a very conscientious man who sympathised
energetically with the broad-minded schemes of the Duke de la
Rochefoucauld for bettering the peasants, they did much visiting of
cures and cottagers.

"Parsangbleu," he exclaimed to Germain. "What is more simple than that
every one of the people is a man like any of the rest of us."

That was then new doctrine to society.

Just when they were starting off one day together, the Chevalier's groom
handed him a note.

While they cantered outward he perused it and commented.

"Our visitors arrive from the Palace this afternoon. One is my very
amiable friend, the Prince de Poix, of the family of the Noailles,
colonel of bodyguards to his Majesty. With him of course comes his
Princess. Make yourself agreeable to her, Germain, which is very easily
done. She is the key of the situation for you. In her charge will be
some ladies. Don't be afraid of the crinoline, my boy. There will also
be some officers of the Prince's command, the Noailles company, namely,
Baron de Grancey, Viscount Aymer d'Estaing, the Count de Bellecour, the
Marquis d'Amoreau, and the Chevalier de Blair. They lead a famous corps,
for every private in the bodyguard is a noble, and has the rank of
captain. They have come to Fontainebleau with the hunt."

The news brought Germain a shock. Since his experiences at the "Holy
Ghost" he had progressively arrived at the conviction that the only
parallel to the distinction of caste between the hereditary gentry and
all other persons as then drawn in France was the distinction between
the heavens above and the earth beneath; the distance between was
considered simply immeasurable and impassable except by the
transmigration of souls. We cannot understand the extent of it in our
day. No aristocrat is now so blind, no plebeian so humble, as to
sincerely believe the doctrine. But in that age France was steeped in
it. High refinement of manners had grown to really differentiate the
Court from the masses, and the members of the governing order were
jealous of the privileges of their circle to a degree which has no
parallel now. To be suspected of being a farmer or a merchant, no
matter how cultivated or wealthy, was to be written "ignoble." The
higher _noblesse_, making up in their own society, by the acquisitions
of descent and leisure, a delightful sphere of all that was most
fascinating in art, music, dress, and blazonry, as well as power and
fame, moved as very gods, flattered with the tenet that other classes
were an inferior species actually made out of a different clay.
Genealogy and heraldry formed a great part of education. The members of
the privileged families all wore territorial titles as their badge. The
most beggarly individual who wore the sword claimed precedence of the
most substantial citizen. Whatever name was plain, to them was base.

Now Germain's name was plain, and he knew his class was held by these
people as base. His Elysian gardens, thought he, were about to be
snatched away.

About two o'clock in the day he saw with beating heart a courier gallop
up to the staircase of the main entrance, dismount, and wait.

The Chevalier's _maitre d'hotel_ hastily caused the doors to be thrown
wide open, and the hall swarmed full of servants. De Bailleul, donning
his Grand Cross of St. Louis, placed Germain at his side, and stood at
the foot of the steps.

The Princess arrived in a sedan-chair at the head of a procession of
carriages, the first of which contained her chief servants and an abbe,
who was her reader; those following held her husband and the other
guests.

Germain blanched when he saw the latter descend. They wore that bearing
which marked their class, and the dress of each seemed to him like the
petals of some rich flower. The Canadian youth looked at them,
fascinated. At his age the soul watches eagerly from its tower (what is
a man but the tower of a soul?); each new turn of the kaleidoscope,
each new figure crossing the landscape, is bathed in the rosy glow of
morning. Yet he thought of them with a sense of imprisonment and
sadness.

"I have not known till now what I desire; alas! I am nothing."

The Chevalier assisted the Princess to alight, and, kissing her hand,
turned and said--

"Permit me, Madame, to present to your Excellency Monsieur Lecour, of
Repentigny, in Canada."

This was the crucial moment in the history of the merchant's son. As he
heard his name uttered the thought rushed into his mind how baldly and
badly it sounded. There was a second of suspense, soon over. The great
lady, arrayed in all the mountainous spread and shimmering magnificence
of the Court costume, glanced at him with formal smile and impassive
face, drew back, and made the _grande reverence_ of the woman of high
society. He noted it breathlessly, and as he returned it, full of
quick-summoned grace and courage, he heard an inner music beginning to
sound, loud, triumphant, and strange. He became seized of a new-found
confidence that he could sustain his part. Every small doing now
appeared of importance. The five Life Guards stood near. De Bailleul
introduced Germain to Baron de Grancey and went away. Grancey, not
having caught the Canadian's name, amiably asked Germain to repeat it.

He stopped, blushed, and faltered--

"Germain--Lecour----"

"De?" the Baron asked, supposing as a matter of course that a
territorial title was to follow.

Lecour, in his confusion taking the requested "de" to mean merely
"from," proceeded to utter four fatal words--

"De Repentigny en Canada."

The Baron turned to his nearest companion, and again the formula of
introduction fell on Germain's ear--

"Chevalier de Blair, I have the honour of presenting you to _Monsieur de
Repentigny_."

"Monsieur, I have the honour of saluting you," said de Blair.

Before Germain could collect his ideas he had bowed to each of the other
Guards under the name "de Repentigny."

It cannot be said that, once he had recovered his self-possession after
his narrow escape from being announced as a plebeian, any great qualms
for the present overtook him. He reasoned that the title just attributed
to him was not the result of his own seeking. Though destined to bring
on all the serious consequences which form the matter of this story and
to change a lighthearted young man into a desperate adventurer, it came
in the aspect of a petty accident, which but facilitated his reception
at the hands of the companions who crowded around him.

"Have I not seen you at Court? Were you not presented six months ago in
the Oeil de Boeuf?" inquired de Blair.

"I am only a provincial," he answered. "I know nothing of the Court."

"When I first came from Dauphiny up to Versailles," laughed the Count de
Bellecour, "I spoke such a _patois_ they thought I was a horse."

"You come from Canada? Tell us about the Revolution in the English
colonies. It is not a new affair, but we army men are always talking
about it."

Germain ventured on an epigram.

"That was simple; it was the coming of age of a continent."

"A war of liberty against oppression?"

"Rather, gentlemen, a war of human nature against human nature. We had
experience of the armies of both sides in our Province."

"Would I had been there with Lafayette!" another Guardsman cried.

"You, d'Estaing!" exclaimed Grancey. "You would cry if an Englishman
spoiled your ruffles!"

"Sir, my second shall visit you this evening!"

"Pray, you twin imitations of Modesty-in-Person, let us have a real
tragediette in steel and blood," put in d'Amoreau, the fifth Life Guard.

D'Estaing and Grancey, drawing swords, lunged at each other. D'Amoreau
and the Count de Bellecour each ran behind one of them and acted as a
second, the Chevalier de Blair standing umpire, when the Abbe, the
Princess's reader, entered. The blades were thrust, mock respectfully,
back into their scabbards, and they all bowed low to the ecclesiastic.

A short, spare man of thirty with a cadaverous face, whose sharp,
lustreless black eyes, thin projecting nose, and mouth like a sardonic
mere line, combined with a jesuitical downwardness of look, made one
feel uneasy--such was the Abbe Jude as he appeared to Germain's brief
first glance.

"Never mind, gentlemen; one less of you would not be missed," he
retorted to their obeisance.

"You would like a death-mass fee, Abbe?"

The Canadian, brought up to other customs, wondered how a priest could
be addressed with such contempt by good Catholics.

"Is he a monk or a cure?" he inquired, when the reader had passed on.

"He is nothing," answered d'Estaing, with clear eye and scornful lip.
"Paris is devastated by fellows calling themselves abbes. They have no
connection with the Church, except a hole in the top of their wigs. This
fellow is Jude, the Princess's parasite."

To Germain the Guardsmen made themselves very agreeable. The manners of
the Canadian attracted men who held that the highest human quality after
rank was to be amiable. The Baron took him violently into his heart. He
was a large, well-made fellow of a certain grand kindliness of bearing,
and wore his natural hair, which was golden. The rich-laced blue silk
tunic of the Bodyguard shone on his shoulders in ample spaces, and he
well set off the deep red facings, the gold stripes, big sleeves, and
elegant sword, the coveted uniform, loved of the loveliest and proudest
of Versailles.




CHAPTER VI

EPERGNES AND WAX-LIGHTS


Dinner took place at four, with the windows darkened. At the right and
left of the host respectively were the Prince and Princess de Poix.
Germain presided at the foot of the table, having on his right a
Canoness and on his left a young lady to be described presently. As his
glances passed down the two rows of guests he thought he could never
have imagined a more perfect scene of its kind. He was dazed and
intoxicated.

A soft but bright radiance was shed by a host of starry wax-lights in
the chandeliers above. An indescribable air of distinction marked every
face. Numerous servants moved about noiselessly, and the musicians of
the chateau, placed in a recess, played upon violins and a harpsichord.
The table was a fairy sight. Flowers, silver statuettes, and candelabra,
were placed at intervals down the middle. Between and around these a
miniature landscape, representing winter, was extended, with little
snowy-roofed temples, an ice-bound stream, bridges, columns, trees and
shrubbery, all dusted with hoar frost. The company uttered exclamations
of delight at the ingenuity of the idea.

There was particular pleasure in eyes of the lady who sat at Lecour's
left, the Baroness de la Roche Vernay. She was one of those startlingly
beautiful beings whom one meets only once in a lifetime. Less than
eighteen, and fragile-looking at first glance, Nature had given her an
erectness and grace and a slender, unconscious symmetry which,
characterising every feature, seemed to suggest the analogy of the
upward growth of a flower. The purity of innocence and truth lightened
her fair brow, at the same time that enjoyment of society shone from her
sparkling eyes. Her soft light hair was worn, not in the elaborate
manner of the ladies about her, but in the simplest fashion and with
merely a trace of powder. The most unusual and characteristic element in
her appearance was a white, translucent complexion with touches of
colour, and as she was also dressed in white, lightly embroidered with
gold, she seemed to Lecour, in the radiant, unreal wax-light, so
ethereal as to have just come from heaven. So vision-like and wonderful
to him was her beauty that he gasped when she turned to him to speak.

"Your _chef_ is a real Watteau, Monsieur--a marvel at design."

"He doubtless dreamt what stars were to beam over his landscape,
Madame," he answered, for he had at least kept grip of his wits.

"What stars, Monsieur?"

"My lady's eyes, n'est-ce pas?" he answered.

The stars thus eulogised brimmed with smiles and searched his face.

"Monsieur," said the Canoness, who was not quite so young, but very
pretty, "you should have applied that compliment to _all_ of our eyes. I
am in the habit of pleading for the community, as we do in my convent."

"None of these ladies, including yourself, Madame, have any need of
compliments, in my humble opinion."

"You deserve a reward, sir. Our Chapter is giving some Arcadian
receptions, and you shall be one of the shepherds. We have absolute
idylls of white sheep in our garden, though we cannot go to the length,
of course, of wearing those old costumes of the nymphs and
shepherdesses. How entrancing those costumes were," she added with a
careless sigh.

The Canoness was an extraordinary curiosity to him. She was _petite_ and
fair. Though a _religieuse_, she wore crinoline and large paniers, and,
was elegantly furbelowed. The colours of her dress were mainly white and
gold, but a long light robe of black crape was thrown over her
shoulders, and the jewelled cross of an order ornamented her breast.

"Did the ancient nymphs know any better?" cried Mademoiselle de
Richeval, who sat a couple of places further on. "Do you not believe
that if they lived to-day they would patronise our fashions?"

"Know any better? Do you think they were unconscious that to carry a
crook is becoming to the arm? No, they were as careful of their crooks
as we of our rouges. What is _your_ judgment, Monsieur de Repentigny?"

"It is a Judgment of Paris you require," he exclaimed, "and I have not
been there yet."

Cyrene de la Roche Vernay touched her lovely hand quickly upon the table
and turned to him with a delighted little laugh.

"As for me, I shall be glad if these tiresome fine clothes are ever to
be banished," she murmured, twisting her wine-glass.

"Baroness, you have been reading the wicked Rousseau and his 'Social
Contract,'" de Blair, who sat next to her, bantered.

"It surely ought to cost something to be noble," pronounced the
Canoness, in whose convent every candidate was required to prove
sixteen quarterings of arms, and received the title of countess.

"Permit me to agree with the Church," laughed Mademoiselle de Richeval;
"we women ought to be as elaborate as possible, so as to frighten away
all those who are not rich enough to marry."

"I believe I could say, Miss," asserted d'Estaing, "that nevertheless
you yourself have brought to Fontainebleau at least twelve short dresses
and five pairs of low-heeled shoes."

"More than that--a straw hat and aprons," Cyrene added mischievously,
casting a smile also at Germain.

"Hold! hold!" de Blair cried. "This is certainly the revolution they say
is to come. We are returning rapidly to the State of Nature."

"Do I hear a phrase of that man Rousseau, ladies?" the Princess called
over, nodding her head-dress. "When I was little he was presented to me
at the Prince de Conti's, and had no breeding. Is that not true, Abbe?"

"You speak with your unvarying correctness, Madame la Princesse."

"You hear the Abbe, ladies," she said languidly, sitting back again.

D'Estaing, to change the subject, took up the name of the Prince de
Conti, and turning to the Canoness and Cyrene, told a story which he had
often heard of him.

"Madame de Bouillon, being with the Prince, hinted that she would like a
miniature of her linnet set in a ring. The Prince offered to have it
made. His offer was accepted on condition that the miniature be set
plain, without jewels. Accordingly the miniature is placed in a simple
rim of gold. But to cover over the painting, a large diamond, cut very
thin, is set above it. Madame returned the diamond. The Prince had it
ground to powder, which he used to dry the ink of the note he wrote to
Madame on the subject."

"There is a Prince!" cried Mademoiselle de Richeval.

"By the way, Montgolfier has sent up a new balloon which has carried
four passengers," went on the volatile d'Estaing.

"Who is this Montgolfier with his balloons?" the Princess asked
languidly. "Is he what the new coiffure is named after?"

D'Estaing looked around a little significantly.

"Precisely, Madame--the coiffure Montgolfier," Germain at once replied,
for he had looked into hat fashions lately.

"Please describe it to me after dinner. All the world is speaking of
it."

"To the devil with coiffures!" Grancey whispered to the Canoness, and
struck up a paean of praise on the lean hound Arethuse who led the hunt
the previous day.

"Yes, but I believe that dog is possessed of the devil," asserted
d'Estaing. "Did you notice her eyes flash when she sprang down the
hideous glen where we nearly broke our necks? The foresters once told me
about that place."

"What about it?"

"It is the glen of the Great Hunter. The courtiers of King Henry IV were
hunting in that part of the forest one day, when they heard a tremendous
horn, saw the stag turn, and a strange pack of dogs in full chase fly
after it across their path; and with the hounds they saw a hunter,
riding on a great black horse. They stopped and shouted at the intruder,
and searched about for him, when a gigantic savage of a frightful
countenance sprang above the bushes and said in a voice which froze
their blood: 'DO YOU HEAR ME?' Since then he has been seen many times by
the foresters and others."

"I do not like the subject," shuddered Mademoiselle de Richeval,
crossing herself.

"Pardon me," d'Estaing gravely said, bowing.

"Tell me something about those men ascending into the clouds," spoke the
silvery voice of the young Baroness, addressing Germain.

He gladly told her all he knew of the late ascent, at which he had been
present in Bordeaux; how Montgolfier and his brother made the balloon;
how he stood by their enclosure and saw them fill the balloon with
inflammable gas; how the brave four got into the car and everybody
prophesied their destruction; and of the speechless thrill with which he
saw at last the strange machine dart upwards and carry them swiftly
higher and higher, until it was but a speck drifting across the clouds.

The vividness of his account pleased her, and at the end she was
permitting him to drink her health, when they were interrupted by an
exclamation, and saw de Grancey pointing to the table. A surprise of an
ingenious nature was occurring before their eyes. The artificial hoar
frost which gave such beauty to the miniature landscape was slowly
melting with the heat of the room, and during the process the guests saw
the thawing of the river, the budding of the trees, and the blossoming
of the various flowers take place, as spring succeeded winter. A little
cry of delight leaped involuntarily from the lips of the sweet la Roche
Vernay and she smiled exquisitely on Germain, who, in that moment,
wildly lost his heart.




CHAPTER VII

"THE LEAP IS TAKEN"


"Who is this Monsieur de Repentigny, Chevalier?--tell me," asked the
Princess, who was holding her little evening court in full circle on the
balustraded terrace behind the chateau. She sat well out where there was
plenty of room for the swell and spread of her vast garland-flounced
skirts,--a woman of something less than forty, the incarnation of inane
condescension. At her feet were her two pages--rosy little boys, dressed
exactly like full-grown gentlemen. The ladies of her circle sat around
her, each likewise skirt-voluminous, all pretending to be negligently
engaged unravelling scraps of gold and silver lace, the great
fashionable occupation of the day. Her reader stood behind her.

The Chevalier, when addressed, had just remounted the steps from the
lawn to the terrace with the Prince. He made a smiling bow.

"Monsieur de Repentigny?" he inquired. "I do not know of whom--ah, it is
of Germain you speak."

Only the little Abbe, crouching, noted the first half of his answer. He
treasured it away in his memory.

"Monsieur Germain then," continued the Princess--"this Canadian
gentleman. Is he one of your relations?"

"One of my dearest, Madame. Why do you ask?"

"Because he is the most adorable of men. He has explained to me the
_coiffure Montgolfier_."

"He is a picture," exclaimed Mademoiselle de Richeval.

"A man, Mademoiselle," returned de Bailleul warmly.

"Has he a fortune then, Chevalier?" she laughed.

"Perhaps he shall have mine," quizzed the old soldier.

"He must come with us to Versailles, Chevalier," said the Princess. "So
agreeable a person will be indispensable to me."

Germain, dallying behind the Chevalier, approached the foot of the
terrace steps.

"Monsieur-Germain," she cried to him, "will you do me the honour of
returning to Versailles with us?"

What could the poor fellow do but thank her with his profoundest bow,
though the situation set his head in a whirl.

"Is it the pleasure of Madame that I should read?" interrupted a harsh
and ruffled voice. The Princess, for reply, took out of her work-bag a
book of devotions and handed it to the Abbe. He received it with a
cringing bow, but as he glanced at it a suggestion of repugnance flitted
across his lips. "Or does she care first to hear the trifle of news
which I brought from Fontainebleau?"

"What, have you dared conceal a scandal so long, Abbe? Let us have it
instantly," cried the Canoness.

"He is certainly an offender," echoed Mademoiselle de Richeval.

"Ladies, listen to the Abbe," said the Princess languidly.

The pseudo-Abbe scanned the faces about him with a cunning look,
especially that of Germain, as one he would read through and through
were it possible.

"In the name of mercy, Abbe, proceed," the Canoness cried.

"It is a trifle, a piece of mere common talk," he said demurely.

"Speak, Abbe," commanded the Princess de Poix.

"Mademoiselle de Merecour----" he began deliberately.

"Helene?" all exclaimed in astonishment. "Proceed--tell us."

"She is my best friend," the Baroness murmured.

"Mademoiselle de Merecour," he repeated, still delaying. "Have you heard
why she looked so disdainful at the Queen's Game last evening?"

"We never guess your enigmas. Go on."

"She has need to look brave."

"She is about to marry Monsieur de Sillon," said Cyrene. "Perhaps that
explains any unusual expression."

"Ah, Monsieur de Sillon--yes, Mademoiselle, Monsieur de Sillon--but,
ladies, do you know there is no Monsieur de Sillon?"

"No Monsieur de Sillon?"

"Is Monsieur dead?" gasped Cyrene, her hand darting to her breast.

"Monsieur de Sillon will never die, Mademoiselle. It is a maxim of the
philosophy of Aquinas that what never existed never ceases to exist.
What a grand lord was this Monsieur de Sillon! How he bought himself
into that colonelship of Dragoons, invented that band uniform, scattered
those broad pieces at play, kept that stable of English hunters, and
boasted of those interminable ancestries in Burgundy! Well, this
Monsieur de Sillon, who rode in the carriages of the King by right of
his four centuries of _noblesse_, whose coat bore no less than eighteen
fine quarterings, whose crest was an eagle and his betrothed a Merecour,
is the son of a tanner of Tours."

"Incredible!"

"Impossible!"

"You fable exquisitely!"

"The contract of marriage, they said, had actually been signed by the
King----"

"Go on, you are a snail!" snapped the Canoness.

"Only then was it discovered that his father had amassed a fortune in
ox-skins, that the son had picked up some manners, riding, fencing, and
blazonry; none knows how; and that his first introductions were bought
and paid for. He is now, some say, in the Bastille, some in Vincennes
Dungeon, nobody will ever know exactly which. That is all, ladies."

"Let us thank the saints for Mademoiselle's deliverance!" cried the
Princess piously.

Cyrene gasped and said nothing, but tears filled her eyes.

"The horror of but touching one of those creatures--those diners in the
kitchen!" exclaimed the Canoness.

"Of his daring to approach a lady in marriage!" added Mademoiselle de
Richeval.

"Were she one of _my_ blood, he should die," asserted d'Estaing.

An uncanny, silent light passed across the half-shut eyes of Abbe Jude,
and gleamed towards one and another of these haughty exclusives as they
talked together so regardlessly before the face of him they thought the
only plebeian among them. His eye at last met that of Lecour, and he
caught a confusion on the Canadian's countenance which he stored away
carefully with the words of de Bailleul.

The evening fell, and a faint silver moon rose in the sky and grew
brighter and brighter over park and mere. The Princess went in to play
cards, followed by the others. Germain and the Baroness walked up and
down the terrace alone, talking of the stars and the delightful
speculations about them in the book of Fontenelle.

Under the moonlight the girl's fragile beauty wove its fascination
deeper over him. He launched himself upon the strange sea of emotions
which were more and more crowding upon him.

"Oh, my God!" he thought, "am I walking the celestial gardens? Am I a
spirit doomed to banishment? Am I at the same moment both ravished and
damned?"

Once when they came to the end of the terrace they leaned on the
balustrade and looked down at the water. Glossy dark in the shadows of
the old castle which stood in its midst, and in those of the grove on
the further side, it glittered tranquilly where the moonshine fell on
its surface, and the foliage around it wore a soft, glittering veil.
Some mighty witch, some spirit combining Beauty, Power, and the
Centuries, seemed to reign over the lake, holding silent court in the
peaked and clustered white walls and turrets of the ancient stronghold.

"Mademoiselle," he said very quietly, "_I_ have reason to be silent; but
tell me why _you_ are so pensive?"

"I was sad for my friend Helene. Love must be so sacred."

"Did you know her suitor?"

"Sillon--yes; he had _dared_ to speak to me."

They were silent. It was not he who next spoke. Her clear eyes looked as
if into his soul as she said after a long time--

"Monsieur de Repentigny, what would you do were you Helene's brother?"

Germain's sword in an instant slid half-drawn from its sheath, and he
gasped, "I would find him."

She drew her slender figure up in the dusk and looked at him with an
approving glance as if to say, "_You_ are of other fibre than the
baseborn."

"Oh, sweet Cyrene!" he exclaimed, then checked himself, appalled at his
presumption, and added, "Alas, what am I saying? Heaven knows I am mad."

"Hush, hush!" she shuddered, glancing back over her shoulder.

Germain turned and caught sight of a shadow advancing. It proved to be
the Abbe.

"Excuse the messenger of Madame," said he. "She asks you, Baroness, to
take a hand at piquet."

She courtesied graciously to Germain and moved away, followed by the
Princess's black parasite. When she passed through the immense glass
door which looked from the card-room upon the terrace, and his eyes
could no longer follow her loveliness, Lecour turned towards the lake
and exclaimed in a low voice--

"There must be some way to win the paradise on earth and this seraph.
Castle of ages past, frown not too hardly upon me. You represent what I
love--the grand, the brave, the historic, the fair."

       *       *       *       *       *

As he paced his chamber after the household had retired, the
recollection of the day became an elixir, exciting and delicious.

The room was in one of the four towers of the chateau. Sitting down, he
looked out through an open window upon the peace of the night-world.
There were the gardens, quiet, lovely and ghostly, the weird water, the
stately grove beyond it. He sat by the window more than two hours, while
the events just over crowded through his brain.

After a time the moonlight lit an unhappy countenance; next it grew
fixed and studious. He paced the room, he threw himself back into his
chair, rose once more, drew long breaths of cool air at the windows, and
knelt at the _prie-Dieu_ in the inmost corner. A violent tempest had
arisen within. The sails and yards of the soul-ship were strained, and
it was fleeing without a rudder.

At last he undressed quickly and got into bed. He could not sleep, but
tossed from side to side. Finally he sprang up and sat on the side of
the couch lost in swift, fevered thought.

"For her," he whispered in intensest passion--"yes, for her." Then he
hesitated. Suddenly, with fierce decision, he added, "The leap is
taken."

At once the inward storm subsided, sleep overpowered him, and he dropped
back at rest. The moon laid its rays like bars of silver across the bed,
and illuminated his unconscious face and flowing hair with a patch of
brightness. Such is the serene look of heaven upon its wandering
children.




CHAPTER VIII

THE ABBE'S DISASTER


The force of circumstances had proved too great. What strength had his
training or his age to resist them? The old master, Love, the compeller
of so many heroisms and so many crimes, from Eve and Helen to Manon
Lescaut, had grasped him with his wizard power. Poor Germain, thitherto
so worthy and so well-intentioned, rose in the morning an adventurer--an
adventurer, it is true, driven by desperation and anguish into his
dangerous part, and grasping the hope of nevertheless yet winning by
some forlorn good deed the forgiveness of her who was otherwise lost to
him.

As Dominique, the Auvergnat valet who had been assigned to him by de
Bailleul--because he had been foster father to the Chevalier's son--tied
his hair, put on his morning coat and sword, buckled the sparkling
buckles on his shoes, and handed him his jewelled snuff-box, each
process seemed to Germain a preparation for some unknown accident that
might happen, and in which he must be ready to conquer. When he stepped
down to meet his companions, it was distinctly and consciously to
henceforth play a _role_.

He saw Cyrene sitting on a seat in the garden, putting together, with
the critical fingers of a girl, a large bouquet. There was a statue of
Fame close by, and beside it a laurel. She had plucked some of the
leaves to tie with her blossoms.

He went out to her and proffered a word of greeting. She was about to
reply, but the meeting was interrupted by a voice, and the Abbe appeared
from behind the pedestal.

"What! a laurel twig among your flowers, Baroness?" said he. "Excellent!
for Fame herself is not a goddess more suited to distribute favours. Do
I not in you Madame, see again Daphne, the friend of Apollo, who turned
into that tree?" and, smiling atrociously over his classical sweet
speech, he looked at Lecour.

"The insolence!" thought Germain, who also took it as a good opportunity
to begin his _role_. "Well, sir," he exclaimed sharply, "talking of
Apollo, did you ever hear that this god flayed one Marsyas for
presumption?"

Cyrene flashed him a surprised and grateful glance.

"I have heard, sir," replied Jude, "that the Princess de Poix desires me
to find and conduct to her Madame the Baroness de la Roche Vernay."

So saying, he carried off Cyrene again, like some black piratical
cruiser, and she reluctantly accompanied him, looking back regretfully
over her shoulder.

Lecour could not understand the eternal use of the formal orders of the
Princess. He watched the two in a vexed stupor until they disappeared.
Then he recalled the inanity and exacting requests of the great lady,
and guessed how her reader was able to so boldly play his annoying
trick.

Just then Grancey laid his hand on Germain's shoulder. There was so much
friendship in the face of the golden-haired Life Guard that Lecour at
once raised the question uppermost in his mind.

"Baron," said he, "tell me, who is Madame de la Roche Vernay?"

Grancey's eyes twinkled intelligently.

"It is an affair, then? I can keep secrets."

"An affair only on my unfortunate side," Germain admitted gloomily.

"As on that of many another. Your Cyrene is the bearer of a very great
name: she is a Montmorency."

"A Montmorency!"

"Yes; she is a widow, you see."

"Never."

"While an orphan. Her father, the Vicomte Luc de Montmorency, who was a
madman of a spendthrift, ended up in two bankruptcies, and was banished
from Court. Cyrene was brought up in a mouldy old chateau near St. Ouen.
When only thirteen her hand was sought by an ambitious financier,
Trochu, for his son, Baron la Roche Vernay, who was then with his
regiment in Dominica. Money was necessary to the Vicomte, and, in short,
Mademoiselle was sold for two million livres, and the marriage
celebrated by proxy, as both the fathers were impatient to finish the
bargain. It appeared by the mails that the young man died of fever two
days after.

"She wears no mourning," said Germain.

"Her father forbade it, and he brought her back with her dowry at once
to his own roof, away from the Trochus."

"But why is such a beautiful woman not married again?"

"Do you not know that at the Court nobody except the bald and toothless
marries, except for fortune. There are plenty of lovers, but no
husbands. Because she is poor she is passed about in the family,
sometimes as lady of honour to the Princess, sometimes to the Marechale
de Noailles, her grand-aunt."

Germain's feelings were trebly disturbed by the history of the
child-widow. He made an effort to speak to her once more by inviting her
to the tennis-court, but the Abbe informed them just then that she was
requested to read correspondence to the Princess.

When he was in his bedchamber having his hunting-boots pulled off after
a badger hunt with the male guests, the valet, Dominique, began to talk.

"That is a queer priest--that Messire Jude, the Abbe."

"Yes, Dominique."

"Yes, Monsieur Germain. He talks very freely with us servants. This
morning he inquired a great deal of me about your affairs. He said you
were a close friend of his. Was _he_ a Canadian?"

"Not at all. What more, Dominique?"

"He asked how long you had been here; and what relationship you bore to
our master; and what were your intentions about staying; and your
fortune and your rank; and how many were your clothes and jewels. Then
he proposed to see into your chamber here."

"Did you let him?"

"I told him it was against my duty, sir; but he told me I must
never dispute the Church, so he walked in and examined
everything--_everything_; he even opened the cupboards."

"The thief! If you allow that man in my apartment again I will spit you
both. Remember!"

Grancey and d'Amoreau came in.

"Curses on that black beetle," exclaimed the latter.

"Amen," profoundly echoed the former. "If it were not for the Princess I
would feed my rapier with him."

"He has no right to such an honour; I would have him whipped by the
lackeys. Repentigny, he has got her to take us back to the Palace
to-morrow morning, and spoilt all our pleasure."

"That seems to be his vocation," Germain answered with warmth. "I would
undertake to punish him myself."

"On a wager of ten to two half-louis?"

"Accepted."

The two officers laughed uproariously at the prospect.

"Repentigny, if you do this," cried Grancey, "we will speak for you to
the King for something good."

After dinner Madame proposed a promenade in the park. Strolling in
procession, they came to some marble steps by the lakeside, where the
host proposed that the young men should take boats and row the ladies
about, and he assigned Germain to Cyrene.

They were entering one of the shallops, when Jude suggested that the
Princess should be taken too. She objected; she detested water.

"Well, I will enjoy it myself," he said, and with the utmost assurance
stepped into the stern; while d'Amoreau and Grancey chuckled and looked
at each other and Germain. The latter smiled and rowed down the lake.

On the other side was a clearing in the grove, where a stone seat was
placed near the bank. Here Lecour drew to shore, and handed out Cyrene.
The two Guardsmen were watching him closely. When Jude rose from the
stem seat he felt a sudden strong turn given to the boat. He clutched
the air, it did not save him; one black silk leg kicked up, and he
disappeared under the water.

The face of Cyrene, who had seated herself on the stone bench, was for a
moment one of alarm.

The depth was not, however, above the Abbe's waist, and when he rose his
look of furious misery was too comical for any pity. The water streamed
in a cataract from his wig over his elongated countenance and ruined
clothes. He had screwed his face into the black slime of the bottom; it
was now besides distorted with his efforts to breathe, and he
unconsciously held up his blackened hands in the attitude of blessing.
The whole party could not contain their laughter. D'Amoreau, Grancey,
and the other Guardsmen sent up continuous roars on roars from their
boats. The Prince smiled; de Bailleul's efforts to control himself were
ineffectual; the ladies all tittered, except Madame, who stood on shore,
and even the considerate Cyrene could restrain herself no longer, but
turned her head from the moving appeal of the unfortunate figure before
her, and gave way to a silvery chime of undiluted enjoyment.

"Hush, cousin," cried the Princess de Poix, stilted as ever; "such a sad
accident."

"Repentigny, by Castor and Pollux," swore d'Amoreau at the first moment
of their meeting in private, "here are not five louis, but twenty. You
were made for a Marshal of France."

"Dominique," Germain called out, "spend this with your fellows" (by
instinct he knew it was part of his _role_ to be lavish), "and tell them
to drink to that meddlesome blackleg."

"In cold water," d'Amoreau added.




CHAPTER IX

A PHILOSOPHER BEHIND HORSE-PISTOLS


The procession of carriages containing the guests rolled back to the
Palace through the forest.

The carriage of the Prince came last and in it sat the Prince and
Princess, Cyrene and Jude, while Lecour rode alongside for some miles.
How more and more he dreaded the revelation of his humble birth. He said
his adieux at length and turned back with the keenest misery in his
breast he had ever felt--such misery indeed that after a little he could
not resist retracing his route.

The Prince's coach meanwhile had lagged behind the others at a point
where the road cut through a small gorge. His Excellency was giving the
ladies an account and history of the Chevalier's wounds, when in the
middle of it the horses stopped with a jerk. A commotion without any
words appeared to be going on outside. The Prince put his head out and
found himself looking into the barrels of a horse-pistol, while a masked
man of heavy build summoned him to be quiet. He saw moreover nine or ten
half-naked fellows also disguised in rude masks, posted about, with
muskets and pistols pointed at the grooms and himself. The Princess fell
in a faint. The Abbe threw himself under the seat. Such scenes were
being enacted every day on the highroads in that lumbering old handmade
century.

The head of the man who had charge of the Prince was, as it were,
thatched with a torn hat and his black hair straggled past his mask in
tufts down to his shoulders.

"Purses!" he growled harshly, putting his head in at the window.

"Cut-throat!" cried the Prince. "You shall swing for this as sure as
there is a Lieutenant of Police in Paris."

The big man's answer was a ferocious "Enough!"

And as his black finger twitched threateningly upon the trigger, Cyrene
laid her restraining hand on her cousin's arm. She took out her purse
with her other hand and passed it to the man. She promptly also pulled
out that of the Princess. The Prince handed his own to her and it was
passed over with that of his wife.

"Watches!" was the next order.

With the same coolness she passed these likewise.

He scowled next at the brooch Cyrene wore at her neck.

"Give me that," he commanded. She stopped and said firmly--

"Thou hast sufficient, thou."

"I must have that."

With a momentary impatience she tore it off.

"Consult thy best interests and go," she said in a stern voice.

He did not lack the necessary quickness of judgment, and signed to his
mates who retreated into the woods, keeping the lackeys well covered
with their firearms.

"My ladies and my Lord," said the big man, still holding his pistol
aimed at the Prince. "We levy this tax in _the name of the King_." That
is what you say when you steal from us, the people. "We commend you the
consolation of your formula."

Having made this singular speech, to the infinite fury of the Prince,
who would have drawn his sword and leaped out at him had it not been for
Cyrene, he retired backward into the forest.

Germain came into sight at this juncture. The scene shocked and
astonished him, he drove his spurs into the flanks of his horse, which,
with bounds of pain, flew forward, and leaping off, he peered anxiously
into the carriage. The situation was clear enough to him, for its like
was then only too common, so, placing aside for the time being his rage
at the villains, he lifted and straightened the insensible lady into a
position on the seat-cushions, and sent a groom forward for help.

The gratitude of the Prince was profuse. Cyrene spoke not a word. The
shock to her had been intense, and burying her face in her handkerchief
she burst into tears, which more than ever agitated Lecour.

In a few minutes d'Estaing and de Grancey drove up. They were astonished
at the speed and audacity of the affair.




CHAPTER X

THE GALLEY-ON-LAND


At three o'clock a search party of friends and gendarmes from the
Palace, at which the occurrence had aroused something of a flutter, came
back to the place.

The Guardsmen offered to scour the woods in a body. Lecour soberly
recommended a different plan, which they adopted, and placing his six
friends and several royal gamekeepers in Indian file he started at their
head. They followed him without speaking and watched him closely as,
with an intentness quite un-French, he bent down to see farther through
the trees, examined the branches for newly-broken twigs, the displaced
stones, the crushed mosses, disturbed grass, and soft places of the
ground, and the little indications read and looked for by trappers and
Indians. As he entered the woods the traces of the first rush back of
the robbers gave a mass of easy clues and an initial direction.
Following on they came to a marsh, where they found footmarks, and
readily put together the number of the thieves and the physical
character of each. In an open place the trail would be an unconcealed
track across the grass; in dry woods perhaps it would be lost for many
yards. Its discovery, of course, was not altogether so marvellous a
matter as they thought. But it helped Germain's reputation afterwards.

At last they came into a tangled and difficult region called Apremont,
where the rocky ridges were broken into intractable ruins--the most
savage portion of the forest. Strange cliffs of shale, eaten by weather
and earthquake into the most picturesque columns and caves, confronted
them. Here the signs became rare and the advance tedious, but the little
column still breathlessly followed the woodsman. They were rewarded by
finding a neighbourhood where the damp mosses showed many tracks
converging, and as Grancey thought he distinguished a distant sound
Germain listened and heard what he judged to be the faint refrain of a
song. He now adopted greater caution, placing his gamekeepers in a body
to remain ready at call, and at different points setting his friends in
easy reach of each other.

Grancey and he crept along, guided by the uncertain sounds of the song,
but found that they grew fainter. On this they retraced their path and
were gratified to hear the sound increase again. They discovered a point
where it would not grow any louder, and here Germain paused. "I have the
secret!" he whispered, and placed his ear to the ground. The Baron
imitated him. True enough the singing was _below_. They caught other
voices now. Lecour pondered a few moments. He followed an irregular rent
in the rock and disappeared to one side. Returning on tiptoe, excited
for the first time, he beckoned Grancey to accompany him and led the way
with the greatest precaution to a long crack in the side of a hill,
scarcely discernible without the closest scrutiny, through which the
accents came quite audibly, and they caught sight of the objects below
in a grey light. They made out a narrow, oblique cavern, formed by the
widening of what geologists call a "fault" in the shaly rock. Eight men,
all in rags with one exception, were sitting and lying about. Stretched
on the ground, drinking alternately from a bottle, were two, one of whom
was singing snatches of a rambling _vaudeville_.

Grancey touched Germain and pointed out that their firearms were in a
heap at the entrance, and that a rope attached there and coiled loosely
showed their means of exit down the face of the cliff.

The man who was not in rags was standing up, the centre of attraction.
He appeared to be a visitor.

"Stay with us the night," said the leader, a big man of ferocious brows
and keen black eyes. "Our friend, his Majesty, has sent us some of his
venison."

"The Big Hog?" said the stranger.

A round of laughter echoed through the cavern. The stoutness of the King
had given rise to this nickname among the people.

"When his head is ours it will be better than his venison," he added.

About this man's face there was something strikingly horrible and
subtle. His countenance was the image of a grinning death's-head. Its
intelligent, stealthy, and sinister sunken eyes, its depressed nose and
heartless fixed grin aroused repulsion. Its bearing of distinct courage
alone somewhat reclaimed it. His cloak was thrown back, showing a gold
lace belt stuck with knives and pistols, while on his head was a green
cap, which Grancey recognised as the cap of the galley felons.

"What news of the Galley-on-land, Admiral?" asked the robber leader.

"All goes well."

"How many at our oars?"

"Two hundred and forty-eight."

"Besides friends?"

"Besides thirty-four friends. We are all in the salt country now except
yourselves and the bench at Paris. We reviewed in the pines of Morlaix
last month. Such brave ragmen! Forty-seven had killed a hog."

The circle's eyes glistened.

"Yes, the hogs fear us, but the Galley is dark as wind."

"You should have seen the hogs to-day," cried the cave leader; "stupid
beasts, too fat to jump."

"Why didn't you stick them?"

"Sacre Dieu! not here; it's too near the Big Hog."

"The Big Hog does not worry us at Morlaix. Since the salt-tax is raised
four _sous_ in the pound we are all in the Brittany marshes, passing
salt into Maine. In Maine a poor man can eat no meat because he can have
no brine. You can guess that where the people squeal so there is room
for our profit. We lie in the marshes; we gather our piles of salt; we
creep out by night through the woods, and--flip--past the salt-guards
into Maine. Guards, guards, guards--blue men, black men, green men--all
over France. Sacre! they are an itch--a leprosy. Do we hate them, we
all?"

"By the oath of the Green Cap," they cried all together.

"Well, we _were_ vagabonds," he continued, "in the Morlaix woods. Our
great fire lit up the pines at midnight and our men of rags crept up on
all sides to the feast. Some brought white bread, some black, some a
pigeon or two from the lord's dovecotes, and every one his bottle of
wine. There we told what we were doing and planned the campaign. You may
swear we were jolly that night. They have sent me to visit your bench of
Fontainebleau, and pray you for the ransom-money of Blogue, who lies in
Bordeaux prison to be hanged. Two of his guards can be settled for
eighty livres. You are rich, they say, and can pay it."

"Yes, we can afford it," cried the cavern-chief boastfully.

"I thought so, handsome ragmen," returned the visitor. He dropped the
point for a moment and suddenly throwing his right hand free from his
cloak rose into a curious strain of eloquence which made manifest the
nature of this strange organisation, or at least the aims which the man
of the death's-head chose to claim for it.

"Let us never forget, comrades, who we are--that our Order is the
avenger of the wrongs of the people. Give me each your sufferings that I
may treasure them in the common treasury. Give me the tears that have
been shed, the deaths, the starvations, the griefs, the insults, the
cruelties, that I may heap them one upon another in a secret place,
whence, on a day which I see rising very bright out of the days of this
generation, we shall thrust them out all bleeding and dreadful to fly
forth together swift as eagles for the hearts of the rich. Hugues de la
Tour, what wrongs have you to tell?"

"Admiral," cried the young man hoarsely, after drinking a gulp from a
bottle, his eyes bloodshot, and swinging his knife, "I have suffered
till my blood runs like a current of fire against all who are in ease. I
hate the King, the Church, the rich, the judges, the strong, the fair.
My father was a noble of the Court, my mother a Huguenot, and wedded to
him by the rite of the Reformed Religion, his own pretended faith. With
this excuse he threw her off. He denied her the name of wife and us of
his children. His servants pushed her from his door. She died in a
garret at Dijon. I took my little sister by the hand, and travelling to
my father's door in Versailles awaited his entry into his carriage. We
caught his skirts and cried, "Our father!" With his own hands he threw
us to the pavement. For years I felt, brothers, what you have
felt--cold, hunger, and disdain--but I hoarded the thought of 'Justice'
as the friend of the wronged.

"I at length petitioned the magistrature. My papers were unheeded. I
appealed to the Minister. The Minister was silent. I found a way of
presenting our griefs and claims to the King himself. For answer, a
sealed warrant empowered the monster of our life to throw us into
prison. There my poor sister died; I escaped. Join me to your
galley-oars. I hate all monarchs, decrees, nobles, priests, courtiers.
Crime is justice, justice is the system of crime!"

"Very good, Hugues la Tour," commended the Admiral, "you shall have your
hands full of true justice."

"I," shouted a violent man of haggard countenance, "was a cultivator of
Auvergne. By incredible hardship I made myself owner of a plot of
ground. My woman and I lived scantily on our daily black bread and
'pepperpot'; we spent nothing; we had no comforts, but from year to
year, as the _sous_ were piled away in our hoard, we kept our eyes on
the neighbouring acre of moorland. One year a drought came. Our _sous_
were diminished by famine. It was then the tax gatherer came upon us,
his claims heavier than in the years before, for one of the village tax
commissioners was jealous of us. The rest of our _sous_ were not
sufficient; we could not borrow. A bailiff, a 'blue man,' was placed in
our cabin at our cost. The suit went through the Court: we were
discomfited. They took my possessions, as at the commencement they had
designed to do. They starved my wife; they killed my children. I, too,
will kill."

"I also," shouted another. "The tithe was my ruin."

"The worse avarice is the cassock's," said the visitor. "A day of blood
approaches, a day of cutting of priests' throats and burning of
churches."

"I--I can say nothing," another grumbled. "I have always been in rags
and a vagabond. Is it my fault? Who taught me to steal, to strike?"

"Brave rowers," exclaimed the visitor, "I thank you, and as Blogue has
to be ransomed, let us see what you have restored to justice."

"Here is for Blogue, and a little more," exclaimed the cavern-chief,
throwing over a packet he had been making up, "when the disciples are
lucky, the apostle must not lack."

He then spread out a large black kerchief, and placed upon it, one by
one, in the sight of all, the watches, jewels and purses taken from the
coach.

There was one part of this which was perhaps the only thing in their
power by which they could have disturbed Lecour's self control just
then. When he saw Cyrene's brooch in these felonious hands his blood
boiled up and he stamped his foot involuntarily on the rock.

Horror! The loose shaly stones gave way with a rush beneath him. Down he
slid into the cavern, saved in his descent only by the <DW72> and ledges
of the "fault." The astonished bandits fled back with a shout. Before
Germain could move, however, the robber captain sprang upon him, and,
locking him in a desperate embrace, they quickly rolled to the doorway
where, in their struggle, the pile of firearms was swept out into the
gorge. The giant lifted him bodily and threw him out down the face of
the cliff. At this terrible moment the Indian quickness of his early
life came to his rescue, for even as he fell he caught the rope, and
slid down to the bottom. There he shouted for the gamekeepers. He could
see the robbers looking over the entrance and seeming to debate.
Immediately after, two bodies shot down upon him from the cavern, and he
found himself face to face with the big man and the Admiral. They
sprang upon him in concert, and while the former held him, the second
sped off up the gorge and was lost to sight. The robber captain detained
him with a grip of immense power, until three more slid down and made
off. Then, hearing the shouts of the gamekeepers close at hand, he
sprang towards the opposite cliff, climbed straight up it from ledge to
ledge with miracles of muscle, and disappeared over the top. Three
wretches who were still in the cave were secured, fighting savagely. One
was la Tour.




CHAPTER XI

THE COURT


A week or so later, Germain sent his mother the following letter:--

"THE PALACE, FONTAINEBLEAU,
_8th September, 1786_.

"MY DEAR MOTHER,--My good fortune is inexpressible. The whole of your
dreams for me are fulfilled: can you believe it, your son has--but I
will not anticipate. I can scarcely trust it myself to be true. I
informed you in mine of three days ago, which goes in the same mail as
this, of our capture of the gentry of the cavern. It left me pretty
scratched.

"The morning following, a courier in a grand livery came riding to the
chateau to bear me a command to attend the King's hunt. This command, or
invitation, is conveyed by a great card, which I have before me,
engraved in a beautiful writing surrounded by a border exquisitely
representing hounds, deer, and winding-horns with their straps. It
begins: '_From the King_.' Above are the arms of France, the signature
is that of the chamberlain. You may think into what ecstasy it threw me
when my valet handed me these. (You know everybody in society must have
a valet here). My limbs seemed to lose their bruises, and I hastened to
the Chevalier, who was much pleased with this testimony of the credit I
appeared to have brought him, for, with the greatest affection and
generosity, he continues to consider me in the light of a son. He told
me how to act at the ceremonies and the hunt, and to take care not to
ride across the path of the King, for that is a thing which makes his
Majesty very angry. We talked it over perfectly. The only point to which
he took objection was that the card was addressed to "Monsieur de
Repentigny."

"'I hope,' he said, 'there will be no trouble about this. There was a
Repentigny in the army of Canada. We must try to get rid of this name.'

"'If I am at fault with it,' returned I, 'I will make public at once how
it has come to be attached to me without my seeking. Even if an owner of
it should occur, he must as a man of honour accept my explanation.'

"'True,' answered he, 'I am here to witness that. Do not change it for a
day or two. It would be excessively embarrassing for you were it to be
altered on this occasion, for the decrees have of late years been very
strict about birth.'

"'Would these decrees exclude me from this invitation?' I asked him.

"'Unquestionably,' he replied. 'And that would be too cruel; you are as
good a man as any of them.'

"'Very well,' I answered. 'Afterwards I can return to my proper
station.'

"But, dear mother, you cannot think what these words meant to me,
notwithstanding that I ought to have known it to be so. I left him at
once and fled into the park in order to hide my suffering. Oh, it is too
beautiful to lose--this sphere of honour and refinement, this world of
the lovely, the ancestral, this supreme enchantment of the earth. Having
tasted it, how can I return to the common and despised condition of
mankind in general! Mother, you who have taught me that this is my true
world, I leave it to you to answer.

"That afternoon we drove into the town of Fontainebleau, where there was
a very fine haberdasher, just come from Paris, who agreed to make me the
proper suit and to supply all the accessories. Two days after, I put on
the uniform of a _debutant_, which cost me pretty dear but made a fine
figure. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I longed for your spirit
to have been in the glass only to see your son in such an array. The
coat was dove-grey satin; waistcoat of dark red, finely figured, with
silver buttons; small clothes of red, white silk stockings, and jewelled
shoes with the red heels which are worn at Court. I also bought a new
dress sword. It has an openwork silver handle and guard; the blade
sheathed in a white scabbard, which is silver-mounted. I wore large
frills and a small French hat finely laced with gold; and I bought
besides long hunting-boots.

"I drove in our coach to the Palace. As I entered the gates the officer
of the guard espied the livery of the Chevalier, and immediately caused
his company to salute me, observing which all the gentlemen standing
near took off their hats and bowed to me. I drove into the Court of the
White Horse, a great square, one of the five around which this vast
palace is built, and at the entrance door I was met by my dear friend
Baron de Grancey.

"The Baron said to me, 'Did you not tell us you had never been to Court
before?'

"I answered that I had not; and, indeed, my _debutant_ dress and
ignorance were sufficient witness to it.

"'You must, then, have all the honours,' he said. 'He who comes up for
the first time registers his genealogy and has a right to ride in the
King's carriages.'

"'Then it is a great thing to ride in the King's carriages?'

"'My dear friend, it is the right of the noble,' replied he, a little
surprised.

"'Ah, yes, my mother once told me so,' said I. (Dear mother, is it not
true that you said it?)

"'You shall also play cards with the Queen in the evening.'

"'Oh, no,' gasped I.

"'You must,' he returned. 'This honour also is indispensable. After your
_debut_ is over you can be as modest as you please.'

"We arrived by that time at the end of a corridor and before a lofty
chamber, the doors of which were emblazoned in colours with the arms and
devices of France. Within we found the royal genealogist sitting in his
robes of office with the heralds of the royal orders. Round about were
large volumes, the registers of the _noblesse_, which they were
consulting respecting the parchment titles produced by young gentlemen
in person or through their secretaries; and I was told that before being
presented one must show certificates of descent in both lines since the
fourteenth century. I was so shocked at my situation that I became
angry, so that, when the King's genealogist stretched out his hand for
my papers, I answered proudly, 'I have none.'

"'What is my lord's name?' he asked most respectfully. Here my tongue
refused to move. But the Baron interfered, replying--

"'Monsieur de Repentigny. He is far from home, and therefore cannot
produce his titles; but I speak for him as a relative of the Chevalier
de Bailleul.'

"'Monsieur,' replied the King's genealogist to me graciously, 'the name
of Repentigny needs no parchments.'

"He ordered one of the secretaries to give me forthwith his brief of
attestation (I still have it). Thus, dear mother, this Baron has won my
gratitude for ever. But attend to what followed, for it is better still.

"It was in the great hall of the Palace, where the walls and the ceiling
are tapestried with pictures of kings riding the chase. Baron de Grancey
brought me to the Prince de Poix, who acceded to his request to present
me to the Monarch. This Prince is, as I have told you, a very amiable
man, and is obliged to me.

"The whole Court was there. There was the Archbishop of Paris; the
King's elder brother, whom they call Monsieur; the Dukes and Peers of
France, with their blue ribbons across their breasts; and a countless
crowd of lords and great ladies dressed in state. Picture to yourself a
garden full of the rarest flowers sparkling in the sun after a shower
and bending gracefully to the wind; for such they resembled. I mentally
named one my lord Violet, another my lady Rose, a third was the
Eglantine, another the White Lily; so I pleased myself with
distinguishing them.

"The trumpets sound, the music sweeps ravishingly into the air. In
passes the King. He is attended by his guards of the sleeve and the
princes of the blood. The Prince de Poix steps forward and speaks my
name. I tremble. Everybody whispers and stares at us. Ah, mother, what a
moment! I know not what passed. His Majesty said, 'You are the hero of
the forest?' smiled, heard my incoherent whisper, and passed on with his
train, smiling to others.

"Mother dear, I have seen the Sun-King! I have heard the voice to which
Europe listens! I have spoken to Saint Louis and Charlemagne!

"I have not reserved enough money from the furs. Send me 3,000 livres
as quickly as possible. I am writing this in my chamber here, for I am
to be ready for the hunt early to-morrow morning. Every sound I hear
tells of the presence of Majesty; every sight I get from the window of
this dwelling of our ancient monarchs recalls a score out of the
thousand legends which everybody has been telling me.

"Convey my deepest affection to my father and Angelique, and to Marie
and Lacroix, and everybody in St. Elphege, and remember always that I am

"Your dear
  "GERMAIN.

"To Madame F. X. Lecour,
    "Repentigny, in Canada.
  "(By way of London.)

"_Post Scriptum._--The Queen's Game took place last night after I wrote
the above to you. Their Majesties sat at a great round green table,
surrounded by all the Court.

"There were some smaller tables, at which several great ladies and lords
sat and played; but everybody's eyes were on the Queen, who is so
marvellously queenly, and on the King with his stars and his blue
ribbon. They two put down their gold (which was in perfectly new pieces)
and dealt the cards a little. I was given a turn with her Majesty, who
smiled and addressed me, at which I almost fainted. And, mother, the
Count de Vaudreuil, whom you used to see as a child, was there. I took
special notice of him for you. He has a very fine figure and is one of
the greatest courtiers.

"After that, we went off with our friends and had supper and played
nearly all night.

"At daybreak everybody went to the hunt. I and the other _debutants_
were driven to the rendezvous in the carriages of the King, drawn by
white horses. There the grooms gave me a magnificent golden mare, who
knew her work so well that she carried me in at the death of the stag
next after his Majesty. (I tremble at what would have happened had I got
there before him.) The Queen came up among the first. She enjoys the
hunt.

"G. L."




CHAPTER XII

GERMAIN GOES TO PARIS


It appears from the foregoing letter that Germain, before his
presentation, had vacillated in his purpose, so far as his using the
name Repentigny was concerned. All such vacillation vanished in the
excitement of his taste of Court life. The fresh fact--of which Grancey
informed him--that Cyrene had been carried off to Versailles by the
Princess (which he interpreted to mean by the Abbe) only enriched with a
pensive strain, and allowed him to lend an undivided attention to, the
fascinating scenes which surrounded him, full of rich life and colour
like the splendid pictorial tapestries adorning the halls of
Fontainebleau.

On his return to Eaux Tranquilles, the Chevalier advanced at the gate,
where he had doubtless been waiting some time, and, drawing a small
newspaper out of his coat, said in grave fashion--

"Germain, there is something in the _Gazette de France_, which, I fear,
means mischief."

Lecour took the paper with a heart-throb and read--

"The Marquis de Gruchy, the Count de Longueville, the Chevaliers des
Trois-Maisons and de Refsentigny, who had previously the honour of being
presented to the King, had, on the 8th instant, that of entering the
carriages of of his Majesty and following him to the chase."

His face crimsoned. He looked at the Chevalier.

"I have mentioned," said the latter, a troubled look appearing on his
sensitive face, "that the name of Repentigny was that of an officer whom
I knew when our army was in Canada. He was a Canadian of the family of
Le Gardeur, who still lives, bearing the title of Marquis, and is, I
believe, Governor of Pondicherry or Mahe in our Indian possesions.
Should the name reach him through the _Gazette_ as being worn by you, it
might lead to the Bastille. That I would not willingly see befall you,
dear boy."

Germain was touched with the kindness in his friend's voice.

"What should I do?" he asked, faltering.

"Remain at Eaux Tranquilles, resume your own name, and enjoy life
quietly, with all I possess yours."

Tears rose in the young man's eyes. "Your goodness, my second father, is
incredible."

"You remain, then?" asked de Bailleul eagerly. The conflict of the
moonlight night was once more going on in Lecour's breast. The forces on
both sides were strong.

"Give me an hour to think, sir. See, this paragraph does not contain any
risk; the word is printed 'Refsentigny.'"

The Chevalier scanned it anew.

"True," said he. "But," he continued, "did you not know there is a
shadow over this name? Have you heard the story of the 'Golden Dog'?"

"Of Quebec?"

"Yes."

Germain's eyes opened with interest.

"I have passed a great stone house there with a golden dog and an
inscription above its door. I could not but remember it, the more so
that my father refused to utter a word concerning it, though it was
clear he knew some explanation. It was a curious black-faced house
three stories high, eight windows wide, a stiff row of peaked dormers
along the attic. From the edge of the cliff it looked over the whole
country. There were massive steps of stone before it as if gushing out
of the door and spreading on every side; above the door, which was tall
and narrow, was the stone with the sculpture of the dog. Is that the
golden dog you mean?"

"It is. There happened the most luckless deed in New France. The man who
built that house was the citizen Nicholas Philibert, who had risen to
wealth out of his business of baker, and was respected throughout the
whole town. Bigot, the Intendant of the colony, was bringing the public
finances to appalling ruin by his thefts and extravagances--for we all
knew he was a robber--and was driving the people to madness. The
Bourgeois Philibert was their mouthpiece. If the chateau of St. Louis
stood out as the castle of the military officialdom and the Intendants
Palace as the castle of the civil officialdom, the house of the
Bourgeois Philibert was the castle of the people, standing against them
perched upon the cliff at the head of the artery of traffic which united
the Upper and Lower towns. It was too marked a challenge. Bigot
determined to harass him. He sent Pierre de Repentigny, then a
lieutenant in the provincials and a young fellow of the rashest temper,
to billet in Philibert's house, though he had no right to do so, as
Philibert, being a King's Munitioner, was exempt from billeting. Bigot
knew there would be a quarrel. It turned out as he had foreseen.
Philibert stood at his door and refused to allow Repentigny to enter.
Repentigny insisted. Philibert loudly claimed his right, and the
protection of the law from the outrage. Repentigny covered him with
sneers, and pushed inward across the threshold. The merchant upbraided
him for his want of respect for grey hairs and the rights of the people.
Repentigny thereupon flew into a rage. He rushed on Philibert, drew his
sword with a curse and thrust him through the body, which fell out of
the door upon the street, and the citizen died in a few minutes."

"How frightful!"

"Philibert's remains were followed into the cathedral by a weeping
multitude. A number of us officers attended as a protest against Bigot.
In the evening Repentigny was burnt in effigy by the masses in the
square of Notre Dame des Victoires in the Lower Town. Philibert's son
swore eternal vengeance, and had inserted the great stone over the door
of the mansion which bore the figure that you have seen, of the golden
dog crouching and gnawing a bone, and underneath it the legend:

    "_I am a dog who gnaws a bone,
    In gnawing it I take my rest;
    A day will come which has not come,
    When I shall bite him who bit me._"

"Subsequently Repentigny was always held in disgrace, and after the loss
of Canada he took refuge on the other side of the world. They say young
Philibert has followed him thither. What do you think of the story?"

Germain shuddered and did not answer.

"Are you willing to wear the name?"

He shuddered again and hesitated. Finally he answered with a white
face--

"I am willing to wear it long enough to see Versailles. But with your
permission only."

"Not so, Germain, I entreat you as a free man."

"It is hard. It is to give up so much for ever."

"This sacrifice is the call of Honour, which stands above every
consideration. Promise to remember that in deciding."

"I promise it," exclaimed Germain, who stood pondering. "Yet, sir, tell
me one thing."

"Willingly."

"That should I decide to go, I am at least not to lose your affection."

"No, no, Germain, you have it for ever. Have no fear of that, whatever
else. The heart of the father changes not towards the son. Nor shall
ever your secret be lost through me. But, alas! I see you already
resolving to do that that my honour, to which I refer every question,
does not commend."

The old man turned away leaving him agitated and unable to answer. The
tide of love swept over his miserable heart and the form of Cyrene rose
in his thoughts. Her eyes turned the balance. How vast to him was their
argument.

"I cannot," he exclaimed desperately.

The more he dwelt upon it the more he found this a settled point. Of us
who think ourselves stronger, how many ever had such a temptation?

In a few hours he had left Eaux Tranquilles for Paris.

Dominique brought him to a house in the Quartier du Temple where there
was an apartment which de Bailleul often occupied: there they installed
themselves.

During the morning Germain would have in some obscure fencing or
deportment master whose instructions he would adapt to suit himself. In
the afternoon he would stroll off among the pleasure seekers who crowded
the ramparts or the arcades of the Palais Royal, or would study the
externals of high life in the Faubourg St Germain. His evenings were
largely spent in the _parterre_ of the opera.

His signature, in place of plain "Germain Lecour" now read: "LeCour de
Repentigny," with the capital "C," or "Repentigny" alone, in a bold
hand, with a paraph. And there appeared on his fob a seal cut with a
coat of arms highly foliaged--azure with silver chevrons and three
leopards' heads gold, which he had discovered to be the Repentigny
device. With it he sealed the wax on his letters. He had bought indeed a
pocket _Armorial_, the preface to which was as follows:--

     "_To the Incomparable French Noblesse._

     "The Author presents to you, valiant and courageous Noblesse, the
     _Diamond Armorial_, which, despite the malice of the Times and the
     Flight of Centuries, will carefully preserve the Lustre of your
     name and the Glory of your Arms emblazoned in their true colours.
     This glorious heraldic material is a Science of State. Though it is
     not absolutely necessary that all gentlemen should know how to
     compose and blazon arms, it is Very Important for them to know
     their Own and not be ignorant of Those of Others. It is the office
     of the Heralds to form, charge, break, crown and add Supporters to,
     the coats of those who by some Brave and Generous action have shown
     their High and Lofty virtues; whereof Kings make use to recompense
     to their gentry this mark of Honour and Dignity; that so they may
     Impel each to goodly conduct on those occasions where Men of Stout
     Hearts acquire Glory for themselves, and Their Posterity...."

In his chamber, on the day when he bought it, he left it on the table
and the open page began--

"The glorious house of _MONTMORENCY_ beareth a shield of gold with a
scarlet cross, cantoned with sixteen azure eagles, four by four."




CHAPTER XIII

A JAR IN ST. ELPHEGE


At noon, on a day late in October, 1786, the Merchant of St. Elphege sat
at the pine dinner-table in his kitchen, opposite his wife, resting his
wooden soup spoon on its butt on the table. The windows, both front and
rear, were wide open, for one of those rare fragrant golden days of late
autumn still permitted it. He was listening, with some of the stolid
Indian manner, to his wife reading Germain's letter. He vouchsafed only
one remark, and that a mercantile one: "Seven weeks, mon Dieu! the
quickest mail I ever got from France!" From time to time, while he
listened, his eyes glanced out with contentment upon the possessions
with which he was surrounded--upon the rich- stubble of his
clearings stretching as far as eye could see down the Assumption, with
their flocks, herds, and brush fences; upon the hamlet to which his
enterprise had given birth, and where he could see, in one cottage, his
_sabotiers_ bent over their benches adding to their piles of wooden
shoes; in others, women at the spinning wheel or loom, making the cloths
of which he had improved the pattern, or weaving the fine and beautiful
arrow-sashes, those _ceintures flechees_ of which the art is now lost,
yet still known as snowshoers' rareties by the name of "L'Assomption
sashes"; his makers of carved elm-bottom chairs and beef mocassins; and,
within his courtyard, the large and well stocked granaries, fur-attics
and stores for merchandise contained in his four great buildings. His
wife was dressed in cloth much more after the fashion of the world than
the prunella waist, the skirt shot in colors and the kerchief on the
head, which formed the Norman costume of the women seen through the
cottage doors. Her silk stockings and buckled slippers marked a desire
to be the gentlewoman. Her dark eyes struck one as clever. Her first
husband had been the butler of the Marquis de Beauharnois when that
nobleman was Governor of Canada, and she had never ceased to look back
upon the recollections of high life stored away in those days in her
experience.

"There!" she exclaimed, as she flourished the letter at the end of
Germain's account of the reception--"Presented to the Court! Lecour,
when you said I was my boy's ruin, when you grumbled at his abandoning
the apothecary's shop to go to the Seminary and learn fine manners, did
I not tell you my son was baked of Sevres and not of clay? At the Court
of France! and presented to his Most Christian Majesty! Among Princes,
Counts, Duchesses and Cardinals! What do you say to _that_, Lecour?"

Her husband's eyes twinkled: "That for the moment you are General
Montcalm, victorious; though I remind you that General Montcalm
afterwards had his Quebec."

"Quebec or no, my son is at the Court of France."

"I do not dispute that."

He began assiduously making away with his smoking pea-soup.

"Let us proceed with the letter," said she, for she had indeed shown her
generalship in stopping where she did.

"Ah," she went on, pretending to scan the next words for the first time,
"Germain needs three thousand livres."

"What!"

"Only three thousand."

"But he kept three thousand out of the beaver-skins; the last draft was
for nine hundred; whither is this leading? Have we not to live and carry
on the business? and you grow more fanciful every day, as if we were
seigneurs and not peasants."

"Certainly we are not peasants--_citizens_, if you please: anybody will
tell you that a merchant is not a peasant. There are citizens who are
_noble_, Lecour. Why should _we_ not make ourselves seigneurs? Who is it
but the merchants who are buying up the seigniories and living in the
manor-houses to-day? That is my plan."

"Three or four jackasses. Let them be jackasses. I remain Francois
Xavier Lecour, the peasant."

"Well, Francois Xavier Lecour, the peasant, _my_ son, the noble, must
have these livres."

Her black eyes flashed. "Will you have the poor boy disgraced in the act
of doing you credit? Look at me, unnatural father, and reflect that your
child is to experience from you his earliest wrong."

Lecour quailed. His powers of spoken argument were not great. He said
nothing, but rose, threw off his coat suddenly, and sat down again.

"Yes," she exclaimed, angry tears rolling down her cheeks. "Your wife
will sell her wardrobe and her dowry--little enough it was--for my son
shall not want while he has a mother, and that mother owns a stitch."

It was when it came to meeting clap-trap sentiment that trader's
inferior grain showed, and he faltered.

"I will go as far as a thousand. It is all it is worth."

By that word he exposed the small side of an otherwise worthy nature.
She sprang to the attack.

"_Diable!_ am I linked to a skinflint?"

"A skinflint, forsooth, at a thousand livres!"

"Yes," she cried in a fresh flood of tears. "A wretch, a miser. You are
unworthy, sir, to be linked to a family from whom Germain takes his
gentlemanly qualities. Had he nothing but you in him, he would be a
grovelling clod-hopper to-day instead of a favourite of kings."

Lecour laid down his wooden spoon in his pea-soup-bowl. He
phlegmatically took his clasp knife from its pouch, hung round his neck
by a string, struck his blade into the piece of cold pork upon the table
and cut off a large corner, in defiant silence. But his heart was heavy.
It was no pleasure to wrangle with so able a wife. He had no wish to
quarrel. Only, he knew the value of a livre. Germain was really becoming
a shocking expense. He felt that his wife would in the end persuade him
against his better judgment. In truth he liked to hear of his son's
successes, but it went against his prudence. There was to him something
out of joint in the son of a man of his condition attempting to figure
among the long-lined contemptuous elegants who had commanded him in the
army during his youth. The gulf, he felt, was not passable with security
nor credit.

Just as he was hacking off the piece of pork, a high-spirited black pony
dashed into the courtyard, attached to a calash driven by a very stout,
merry-eyed priest, who pulled up at the doorstep.

Lecour and Madame at once rose and hurried out to welcome him. At the
same time an Indian dwarf in Lecour's service moved up silently and took
the reins out of the Cure's hands. The latter came joyously in and sat
down.

"Oho," he cried, surveying the preparations on the table. "My good
Madame Lecour, I was right when I said an hour ago I knew where to stop
at noon in my parish of Repentigny."

"Father, I have something extra for you this time," she replied
laughing, and crossing to her cupboard, exhibited triumphantly a fine
cold roast duck.

"You shall have absolution without confession," he cried. "Let me
prepare for that with some of the magnificent pea-soup a la Lecour. Oh,
day of days!"

She went to the crane at the fireplace, uncovered the hanging pot, and
ladled out a deep bowl of steaming soup. At the same time she told him
excitedly of Germain's presentation at Court.

"What! what! these are fine proceedings. The Lecours are always going
up, up, up. Our Germain's distinction is a glory for the whole parish.
Lecour here ought to be proud of it."

Flattery from his Cure weighed more with Lecour _pere_ than bushels of
argument. The wife saw her accidental advantage and took it.

"He does not like to pay for it," she remarked demurely.

"What! what! my rich friend Lecour. The owner of seventeen good farms,
of three great warehouses, of four hundred cattle, of untold
merchandise, and a credit of 500,000 livres in London, the best payer of
tithes in the country, the father of the most brilliant son in the
province, the husband of the finest wife, a woman fit to adorn the
castle of the governor," cried the ecclesiastic, finishing his soup and
attacking the duck.

Lecour thawed fast. But he reserved a doubt for the consideration of his
confessor.

"Is it honest to pass for a noble when one is not one?"

"I do not see that he has done so. It is not his fault, in the manner
that he has explained it. Let the young man enjoy himself a little and
see a little of life. We are only young once, and you laics must not be
too severely impeccable, otherwise what would become of us granters of
absolution. Furthermore, we must not be too old-fashioned. Our people
here are getting out of the strictness of the old social distinctions.
It may be so too in France. On my advice, dear Lecour, accept every
honour to your family your son may bring, and pay for it in the station
fitted to your great means, that I may be proud of all the Lecour family
when I go to Quebec and boast about my parish at the dinner-table of the
Bishop. Come," exclaimed he, at length, pushing aside his plate with the
ruins of the duck, "bring out that game of draughts, and let us see if
the honours of Germain have not put new skill into the play of a proud
father."

Madame brought out the checkerboard. She brought besides for the Cure a
little glass of imported _eau de vie_, and her husband, taking out his
bladder tobacco pouch, commenced to fill his pipe, and that of his
Reverence, and to smoke himself into a condition of bliss.




CHAPTER XIV

THE OLD-IRON SHOP


An enormous yellow and black coach lumbered and strained along by the
aid of six lean horses, and many elaborate springs, chains and straps,
from Brittany towards Paris. The autumn roads were execrable, for the
rains had been heavy, and the ruts made by the harvest-waggons were
deep. The lateness of the season intensified the deserted look of rural
France. Little else was to be seen along most of the route than rows of
polled trees lining the highway, and here and there an old castle on a
hill, or a _commune_ of a few whitewashed cottages, where the coach
would pull up at the inn and perhaps change horses. The driver and guard
remained the same; but various postillions took charge and then gave up
their charges to others. Travellers of assorted ranks and occupations
got in and out. Of the twelve for whom there were places in the coach
some remained during long distances, some shorter, but only one was
faithful from Brittany to the end. He was a short-statured, country
_bourgeois_, whose woollen stockings and faded hat gave to him a certain
look of non-importance. Moreover, he was always wrapped unsociably in a
brown cloak, of which he kept a fold over his lower face, and in which
he snored in his corner even when all the others jumped up to escape an
upset.

After several days the aspect of the country suddenly changed. Immense
woods and parks rendered it even more solitary, yet strange to say the
increased solitude was evidence that the hugest capital in Europe was
near, for these were the hunting domains of the princes of the blood and
great courtiers, which encircled Paris.

During the night there was another sudden change. The forest solitudes
disappeared, the horses sped forward on fine broad roads; and soon the
coach dashed with a triumphant blast into the lights and stir of
Versailles, crossed its Place d'Armes and turned again into darkness
along the Avenue of Paris.

At length, in the first grey of morning, it rumbled loudly over a
stretch of cobbled pave, and pulled up at an iron railing inside the
City wall. Here the officers of the municipal customs came out. One of
the first passengers visited was the _bourgeois_, and his dingy black
box and sleepy expression received exceptionally contemptuous usage.

"Haste, beast, open it! Dost thou think I have to wait all day? Take
that," and the gendarme struck him a tap on the side with the flat of
his sword.

For a second the _bourgeois_ seemed another man. He drew up with such an
inhuman gleam in his cadaverous eyes that the customs man drew back.

"Quick, then, a little," said the latter in something of an apologetic
tone. The short man as rapidly recovered his self-possession. He leered
in a conciliatory way upon the official and pressed a livre into his
palm. The official passed the box through the gate. The coach proceeded
into the City until it arrived at its heart and stopped at the entrance
of that great and wide bridge, the Pont Neuf, the main artery of Paris,
where most of the passengers alighted. They found themselves engulfed
in a yelling multitude of porters, who scrambled for passengers and
baggage as if they would tear both to pieces, which indeed they had no
great aversion to doing.

The _bourgeois_ singled out a tall man who had mingled in the scrimmage
as if only for his amusement. Cuffing the others aside like puppies with
his long arms, the latter lifted the black box out of the tussle and
started away, followed by its owner. They plunged into that maze of
tall, narrow, medieval streets of older Paris which Meryon loved to
picture before they disappeared in the improvements of Napoleon. They
crossed the Latin Quarter and thence wending eastward, entered finally
the Quarter of St. Marcel, the wretchedest of the city, and came into a
lane named the Street of the Hanged Man; where dilapidated rookeries
leaned across at each other, their upper floors occupied by swarms of
human beings. The _bourgeois_ here stopped alongside his porter and
spoke to him in the tone of an intimate.

"Is it far now, Hache? It is already some distance from the old place."

"Here we are; come in quick," replied Hache. He was a bold-looking,
black-haired man, red-faced, unshaven, and battered with the effects of
brandy-drinking.

They turned into a grimy old-iron shop. A woman sitting in a corner
fixed her eyes upon them like a watch-dog. They stumbled through,
climbed a dark stair, and entered a room where the traveller, without
speaking to a man who lay there on a bench, locked the door, and Hache
dropped the box on the table with a thud, shaking off a cap and bottle
which were on it.

The man on the bench started at the noise, and got up on his elbow, his
eyes opening with an effort.

"Great God, the Admiral!" he exclaimed.

The _bourgeois_ had thrown off his hat, wig, and cloak. He was the
visitor to the cavern of Fontainebleau.

"It is I, Gougeon," he returned, his death's-head face smiling.

Gougeon wore the garb of an old-iron gatherer. His countenance was
unkempt, pale, scowling, with black eyes embedded in it, his hair coarse
and long, his mouth hard and drooping. He pushed back the grey _tuque_
with which his head had been covered, and without readdressing the
Admiral, got up, slowly unwound the cords which bound the black box, and
raised the lid. Hache looked on.

Gougeon first took out a couple of coarse articles of clothing, and
uttered a grunt. His next grasp brought up a brilliant article of
apparel. He raised it to examine it at the window. The garment shone
even in the meagre light. It was a waistcoat of flowered silk, sown with
seed-pearls. The Admiral stood by, smiling.

With the other hand Gougeon pulled out and lifted a magnificent
rose- dress-coat with silver buttons.

Having gazed at them all round and grunted to his own satisfaction and
to that of Hache, he dived again into the box, where he fumbled around a
large lump covered with linen, and at length drew out a shining
article--a golden _soleil_, or sun-shaped stand for displaying the Host
at the mass. Beside it was a finely embossed chalice of silver. His eyes
and those of Hache were lost in wonder.

There came just then a tap at the door.

The articles were whipped back into their box and covered. The woman of
the shop below walked in. All recovered self-possession. She bolted the
door herself.

Gougeon's mate, who thus appeared among them, was a small woman of about
forty, with the sharp grey eyes of a wild animal.

The coat and vessels were displayed to her by her husband.

"Admiral," she said, "where do these come from?"

The chief seemed to recognise in her a personage equal to himself. He
bowed and said--

"Madame, the _soleil_ and chalice were the Abbey of Pontcalec's, and
were politely removed for safe-keeping by seven marines of the
Galley-on-land."

"And this fine waistcoat?" said Madame, smiling.

"Was one of which the owner had no longer need," he said, looking at
her.

"Indeed," she returned nonchalantly.

"It was a troublesome marquis who ventured home one night by a short
cut. He was one of the fellows who does not believe in the necessity of
a poor man living. He saw a fire of ours in the waste, and what does he
do but ride up and over us. Luckily there is no blood on the waistcoat."

Madame's smile expanded. She looked the article over, picked the
seed-pearls and lace with her little skinny hands, turned out the
pockets, and inspected the flower-pattern of the silk.

Gougeon held the glittering _soleil_ fast in his hands. He could not
keep his scowling eyes off it. Hache took up the bottle from the floor,
and poured some wine into the chalice, whence he drank it off. Madame
lifted the dress-coat, and inspected it with the same feminine closeness
as the vest.

"It is a good package," remarked she.

"You have not seen all," vivaciously replied the Admiral, and diving his
hand into the box he drew forth and opened the black kerchief of the
cave of Fontainebleau. Gougeon's hand snatched the watch of the Prince
de Poix. Hache caught up the chalice, and executed a jig round the room
while drinking it empty; and Madame arranged her neck to great
self-satisfaction with Cyrene's necklace, while the Admiral told with no
small exaggeration the story connected with the plunder.

"This brings us," he continued, "to the object of my coming. Bec, Caron,
and la Tour, the three taken in the cave, are now in Paris imprisoned in
the Little Chatelet. What can be done for them?"

"Nothing," answered Gougeon.

"Be still," enjoined his wife, flashing her eyes at him.

"Were it I, I would go to the galleys and get away just as I did
before," exclaimed Hache.

"Hache, you have no head."

"Not so good as yours, wife Gougeon, I admit; but I escaped from the
galleys."

"To force the guards is impossible," said she speculating. "Who are the
witnesses?"

"I fear they are out of the question."

"Who are they?"

"The Prince de Poix."

"He will not appear in the matter. It is not like your provincial
tribunals."

"Several gendarmes."

"They have their price."

"Granted; but another remains, a bad one."

"Who?"

"The aristocrat who fell into the cave. He is near us."

"His name?"

"Repentigny."

"I will do what I can. We shall see what the Galley is good for in
Paris."




CHAPTER XV

THE BEGGARS' BALL


That evening there was a ball on the flat above. It was refreshingly
democratic. The rag-pickers who lodged with Madame Gougeon and laid the
foundation of her iron business, attended. Thither thronged the beggars,
the knife-grinders, the old-bottle collectors of the neighbouring
rookeries. The crookedest men of Paris, the most hideous women, the
squalidest tatters were on hand. They whirled and jumped furiously in
their unwashed feet; they became almost invisible in the clouds of dust;
the odour sickened, the screeching and jumping deafened one. Bad, but
maddening, wine was drunk in torrents. A man would kick his partner and
the combatants tumble over each other in the midst of an applauding
circle.

Who were these libels on women, these alleged men, these howling fiends?
They were a driblet of two hundred thousand such wretches who overran
and menaced the city, a product of the dense illiteracy of the time.

Wife Gougeon entered with the Admiral. They pushed their way to a long
table in the corner where some sots were gambling, and sitting down on
one of the benches around it, she shouted a couple of words to the man
nearest to her, who bolted off into the dust and returned with a
red-nosed beggar.

"Motte," said she, leering, "are you now on the Versailles roads?"

"Always," he said sharply.

"Do your division watch Versailles?"

"Without ceasing."

"This is the Admiral."

"The great Admiral? Of the Galley?"

"Certainly."

"I salute you, Chief," he said, raising a ragged arm.

"Have some brandy, Green Cap," the Admiral returned, rapping loudly for
drink, which was brought.

"We want," said Madame engagingly, "to find a hog called Repentigny at
Versailles."

The man snatched the bottle from the hand of the _garcon_, and pouring a
glass off, greedily drank it before replying.

"I don't know the name. What age is he?"

"About twenty," the chief said.

"Don't you know any more about him?"

The Admiral described him as closely as possible. They took some time in
the conversation. "He ought to be in the company of officers of the
Bodyguard," added he. The beggar by that time was becoming unsteady with
rapid libations. He nodded, dropping his head.

"Do you understand me?" shouted the Admiral.

"Repentigny," the other muttered, correctly enough.

"Can you meet us at the Place d'Armes of Versailles to-morrow?" wheedled
Femme Gougeon.

He looked at her steadily and nodded deliberately.

"Is twelve o'clock too early?"

He shook his head a little.

"He will assuredly do it," she said to her companion.

The next second the beggar fell off the bench, dead drunk.

The following day at Versailles, at the entrance of the Avenue de Paris,
two nuns were seen to stop and give alms to an old bent beggar. A
conversation took place between them, and was interrupted by the
approach of a gendarme.

"I have found him," was the beggar's whisper.

"Where?"

"At the Hotel de Noailles. Am I to kill him?" he asked excitedly.

"No," said the taller nun.

The gendarme stepped up towards the beggar.

"I arrest you for mendicity," he said, just about to lay his hand on his
shoulder.

The beggar--who bore a red nose--started back with an alacrity
unexpected of so aged a man. He took to his heels, and, with tatters
flying, fled like an arrow from the Avenue.

The gendarme furiously looked after him. When he turned, the pair of
nuns also had moved on. They were slipping round a corner which led into
a by-street of the old town.

Versailles, the City of the Court, was then in the height of its
splendour, gay and triumphant. Everything in it looked towards the
Palace of the King, the long and lordly facade of which, with its three
concentric courtyards, faced the great square of the town, the Place
d'Armes; and behind lay those delicious gardens, groves and waters, the
mere remains of which, such as the Tapis Vert, the Basins of Neptune and
Enceladus, the Trianons, and the Orangerie, are marvels even to our day.
Thousands of costumes and equipages made the town a panorama of luxury;
and countless thoroughbreds, of which the King alone possessed more than
two thousand, glistened and curvetted in the streets.

The neighbourhood of the Palace was naturally that of the aristocracy.
The vast mansions of the Princes of the blood and the Peers of France
were clustered about the sides of the Place d'Armes and the streets
immediately surrounding. One of these was the Hotel de Noailles. Its
range of buildings, for it surrounded a court, stood at the corner of
the Rues de la Pompe et des Bons Enfans. Behind it were its gardens.
Opposite, on the Rue des Bons Enfans, were the hotels of the Princes of
Conde and the Dukes of Tremouille. The hotels of Luxembourg, Orleans,
and Bouillon faced it on the Rue de la Pompe. The Noailles family were
themselves many times of royal descent. Adjoining the hotel were the
quarters of the Queen's equerries.

Germain sat in his apartment, watching, over the balcony of one of the
windows, the incessant movement of lackeys, mounted officials, and
carriages on the street near by. Raising his eyes across the gardens of
the Tremouille Palace, he rested them with quickened delight on the
elegant avenues and groves of the royal pleasure-realm, rich in the
golden tones and clear air of an autumn morning.

In the midst the Basin of Neptune, glittering and shining, and with its
white statues, seemed to inspire him with a happy suggestion, and he
trolled to himself a ballad with a nonsensical chorus, popular in his
native land--

    "Behind the manor lies the mere,
      _En roulant, ma boule_;
    Three fair ducks skim its water clear.

        _En roulant, ma boule roulant._
        _En roulant, ma boule._

    Three fair ducks skim its waters clear,
    The King's son hunteth far and near.

    The King's son draweth near the lake,
    He bears his gun of magic make.

    With magic gun of silver bright
    He sights the Black but kills the White.

    He sights the Black but kills the White;
    Ah, cruel Prince, my heart you smite."

A rap on the door interrupted him. Dominique put his head in,
announcing--

"A woman, sir."

"A woman? Young and beautiful?"

"No, sir; old."

"On what errand?"

"She insists it is business."

"Let her come in."

A figure entered dressed in a faded black shawl, a red dress, and a blue
linen apron, and her face shadowed in a hood. She kept back out of the
window-light, and he thought she was in great distress.

"Madame," he stammered, putting aside his gaiety, and rose.

"Monseigneur, I supplicate your mercy," she sobbed.

"My mercy? I do not understand."

"Your mercy; I supplicate it," she cried in an agonised voice.

"My good woman, I would never injure you, I protest."

"I am their mother, sir; I am starving."

"Whose mother?"

She represented the prisoners as being sons of hers. When she mentioned
the robbery, he recoiled. As she proceeded, however, he condoled with
her and gave her a piece of money, which she took, expatiating brokenly
on the dependance of her sons' necks on his evidence.

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur," she concluded, "do you know what it is to take
three lives of poor men? Can you picture what it means to a parent? You
have a heart--you have a God--you have a mother."

The flood of tears and hysterical sobbing were in the highest art of
expert mendicancy. She advanced towards him, threw herself upon her
knees at his feet, embraced his shoes, and writhed.

Germain was so shaken that for a moment he had an intention of running
for a cabriolet to take him to Paris to intercede with the magistrates
in the affair. He was about to follow his impulse when a consideration
startled him. He had heard the Prince repeatedly speak with satisfaction
of the capture of the highwaymen. To interfere with the arrests, he saw,
would shock the robbed family; it would banish him, he thought, from the
circle of Cyrene. The question troubled him. In a few moments he decided
it: he must stretch out a hand of mercy to this woman.

Following the custom among beggars, she watched his countenance
furtively during her appeals, interpreting its changes more accurately
than he himself was doing, and at its last expression her eyes flashed
with triumph.

"Go; I will help you," he said to her in an agitated voice, and calling
Dominique, added with great courtesy, "See Madame to the gates, and help
her in any way you can."

But no sooner had she left the chamber than a thought which angered him
came like a flash, and stepping to the door, he called them back.

"You say these men are your sons?" he said severely, when she had come
into the room; "let me see your face."

She shrank from him and hid it more deeply in her hood.

"The man who was a cultivator is forty years of age; you are no more,"
he pronounced, "how can you be his mother?"

A few mumbled words passed her lips, but he did not listen to them.

"The three are from three different families, three different ranks,
three different Provinces, and yet you have pretended to be the parent
of all of them. You are the parent of none of them, but have come here
to shamefully impose upon my feelings. What you are is a confederate of
the gang. Had you been the woman you have pretended I was ready to make
sacrifices for you, the extent of which you cannot know. But if, instead
of returning sons to a mother, I am to loose again three most dangerous
criminals upon the country, it is a different affair. Be well satisfied
that I do not immediately have yourself convicted as their accomplice."
In his anger he motioned her to be off, and she, dropping the piece of
gold which he had given her, crept away with alacrity, not daring to
venture a word.

It was only as she passed down through the Prince's halls behind
Dominique that she allowed her fury full possession of her, and as she
glanced about on the evidences of luxury, she gnashed her teeth and
hissed half aloud--

"Ah, but I would stick your throats, you fat hogs!"

"What do you say, Madame?" inquired Dominique.

"Nothing at all."

Germain threw himself again upon his chair and gave himself up to
misery.




CHAPTER XVI

BROKEN ON THE WHEEL


The prisoners were condemned to death, in the terrible form of breaking
on the wheel. Wife Gougeon and the Admiral returned late on the last
night before the execution to the old-iron shop, dismayed and ferocious.
Her vanity was deeply hurt by the failure of her plan. In the back of
the shop, among piles of horse-shoes, locks, spikes, and bars, a meeting
of the Big Bench of the Galley-on-land was held to decide the course to
be taken. The yellow light of the dip threw their shadows into the
recesses and shed its flicker on their faces. Gougeon sat picking at the
candle-grease in his apathetic way. Hache cheerfully threw himself on a
long box. The Admiral stood wrapped in his cloak, melodramatic as usual.

Femme Gougeon pushed into the centre.

"Men, or whatever you call yourselves," she hissed, throwing her grimy
arm into the air, "will you let la Tour, Bec, and Caron die like dogs?"
and her deep-set eyes scintillated from one to the other.

A sullen silence ensued.

Finding no reply, she rushed to the window-sill at the rear and took
down an assortment of pike-heads and stilletti, with which were a couple
of pistols. She thrust a dirk or pike-head into the hand of each, but to
the Admiral she gave one of the pistols; the other she kept.

"There," shrieked she furiously, raising her arm to its full height with
the pistol. "That is what I say about this."

They were still sullen and reluctant.

"What have you done, Motte?" the Admiral said, turning to the beggar of
Versailles.

"I have seen Fouche; he is persuaded an escape is impossible."

"Who is Fouche?"

"A prison guard of the Chatelet, and belongs to our Galley."

"Did you tell him I had the money?"

"He says money in this case is useless; this is not an ordinary
business; the Lieutenant sees to it in person on account of the King's
interest in it; it is robbery from the person of a Prince, and a crime
against the King on his own lands."

"Reasons only too clear," reflected the Admiral. "Where will the
execution be?"

At the mention of the unpleasant word a grimace passed over Hache's
face.

"On the Place de Greve," Gougeon replied, showing a little interest, "at
eight to-morrow."

"How many guards will attend them?"

"Six by the cart, with their officers; and the streets are lined with
the guards of Paris," continued Gougeon.

"You intend a _rescue_? Sacre!" vociferated Wife Gougeon. "I will be
there too; they dare not arrest me. Greencaps, I tell you those
white-gills fear us people, and we could kick their heads about the
streets if we all stood together."

"Death to the hogs!" cried the beggar.

"Take care," Gougeon grumbled.

"What do you mean, beast?" retorted his amiable spouse.

"That there are plenty of _sheep_[1] on this street."

[Note 1: Spies.]

"Curse the _sheep_!" ejaculated the Admiral. "Go everywhere, all of you,
and rouse the Galley and all ragmen for to-morrow at the Quai Pelletier
at half-past seven. Return here by six sharp."

By six next morning the Council had returned, and their friends as they
left the door hung about the street corner near by, amusing themselves
by striking the lamp with their sticks.

At half-past six the Council issued, shouting--

"To the execution!"

Hache ran up the middle of the street repeating the cry in his
stentorian voice, so that as he rushed along the dingy houses poured
forth their contents after him like swarms of bees; boys, men, and women
mingling pell-mell, half clothed, unkempt, fierce-mouthed, wild-faced,
ignorant.

Motte, the beggar, took up the words and sped like the wind up the
narrow side streets and lanes, shouting, "To the execution!"

Wife Gougeon screamed it. Even her husband opened his malign jaws from
time to time and automatically gave vent to a harsh shout.

Thus sown, it became a cry springing up everywhere. The whole quarter of
St. Marcel grew alive, and an immense crowd ran together into the
neighbouring square. Little direction was needed to band them into a
marching mob, waving clubs, pikes, and bottles, dancing, quarrelling and
howling, with ribald songs and shouts of "To the execution!" In one
thing they differed notably from a similar crowd in this century, could
such be imagined. Ragged and wretched though they were, they wore
_colour_ in profusion. The mass was a rich subject for the artist.

Among the women at the front was seen Wife Gougeon brandishing her
pistol. The Admiral and Hache were at her side haranguing the leaders.
Surging along, the demoniac screams of drunken women and the babel of
shouting men, as they approached each new neighbourhood, seemed to stir
it to its depths and to add to the rear a new contingent.

Thus their numbers swelled at every street, and the excitement increased
to a pitch beyond description. They swept forward by the Rue Mouffetard
and through the Latin Quarter till they reached the broad Boulevard St.
Germain. Turning along the latter through the Rue St. Jacques they
suddenly increased their speed and uproar, and thundered across the
Petit Pont Bridge and Isle of France, and once more across a
bridge--that of Notre Dame--where they saw the Quai Le Pelletier on the
other side lined with a black sea of people. At least a quarter of the
population of Paris were crammed together within the available space
upon the quays and the neighbouring streets along the Seine, from the
towered Chatelet--court-house and prison--some distance below, to the
Place de Greve, some distance above, in front of the Hotel de Ville. A
line of blue-coated, white-gaitered soldiers on each side kept the space
clear down the centre.

The people were looking forward to the spectacle of the morning with
intense delight.

Meanwhile at the prison doors of the Chatelet the three poor wretches of
prisoners were forced into a cart by gendarmes in the sight of the
multitude. A man sat awaiting them in the cart, curled, powdered,
dressed; and perfumed with foppish elegance, and his every motion made
with a dainty sense of distinction. He was the people's hero--the public
executioner. He took in his hands the ends of the rope which hung from
the necks of his victims. Another figure mounted the cart behind them.
It was a priest, who knelt, bent his head, and offered to each of them
the crucifix; and the cart then proceeded slowly along the soldier-lined
streets, accompanied by half a dozen guards carrying their muskets on
their shoulders, bayonetted.

The emotions meanwhile of the condemned were told in their bearing.
Young Hugues de la Tour stood up, and scornfully refusing the crucifix
of the priest, looked around upon the scene with an air of
irreconcilable indignation. His companions, Bec and Caron, the men who
in the cave had spoken of themselves as ruined, the one by taxes, the
other by the tithe, were more abject, and clutched the crucifix in
despair.

Comments were shouted freely at the victims. Applause greeted the
demeanour of la Tour, rough raillery the terror of his companions.

After this manner they jolted painfully along the cobbled paving, down
through the swaying crowd towards the Place de Greve. Though the
distance was not perhaps more than a couple of hundred yards the poor
men underwent ages of tension. When they came to the Quai Le Pelletier,
Hugues heard, as in a dream, a startling stentorian, familiar cry--

"Vive the Galley!"

His bloodshot eyes strained towards the place whence it came, and once
more a voice, this time the shriek of a woman, pierced the air--

"Vive the Galley!"

The two other prisoners now raised their heads, still dazed and in a
stupor.

Immediately a third voice, loud and shrill, but instinct with the thrill
of command, took up the words. It was the Admiral, and his third "Vive
the Galley!" was a signal.

Nine soldiers of the line of troops at the point nearest the prisoners
were simultaneously thrown on the street, and a score of desperate men
had broken into the centre and made a rush for the small guard around
the carts. A cry, rising into a multitudinous commotion of shouts, went
up from the gazing mob, ever on the verge of a tumult. At the same time
there was a resistless swaying on all sides--the two lines of soldiers
gave way for a few minutes, and people far and near rushed into the
middle of the street. The vortex of St. Marcellese, at the Pont Notre
Dame, already filled with winey purpose, pushed forward with a sudden
bound towards their leaders and the death-cart, triumphing over their
old enemies, the gendarmes, and preparing for every excess.

Femme Gougeon, as leader of a horde of viragoes, was rushing among them
shrieking more fiendishly than ever. While some held down the guard or
wrested away their arms, the prisoners were lifted out of the cart and
began to be hurried along towards the bridge, Bec and Caron struggling
like maniacs with their fetters. The mob had at this moment complete
mastery.

It lasted only a few seconds. Drums began to beat towards the Place de
Greve. The tocsin bell of the Hotel de Ville sounded. There was a
shock--a check of the crowd's volitions. A heavy rolling-back movement
took place, and a public roar of fear was heard. People on the edges ran
to shelter, and in a few moments more a volley of musketry sounded down
the street. The crowd broke in all directions. It scattered away as
suddenly as it had risen, and through the clearing smoke the soldiers
could be seen closing up and again preparing to fire in volley. The
prisoners were left in the hands only of the Admiral and Hache.

"Come, come," cried the latter, urging them to run.

"Brave men, save yourselves; as for us we are lost," was the reply of la
Tour.

So Hache and the Admiral disappeared.

Bec and Caron lay prostrate on the deserted pavement. Hugues stood up
proudly until a musket-ball broke his arm and knocked him over.

Then the dead and wounded could be counted, scattered over the scene of
the _melee_.

Sickening it would be to tell in full of the execution which followed.

The Place de Greve was surrounded by an entire regiment, keeping back
the crowd, who soon, remastered by overpowering curiosity, struggled for
standing room and strained their necks to see. A conspicuous platform
had been erected in front of the Hotel de Ville. Caron was the first to
suffer. At the order of the executioner he was caught hold of by two
assistants, thrown down, and bound to a large St. Andrew's cross of
plank which lay on the platform. The black-robed confessor knelt down at
his head and held up the crucifix before him, at the same time hiding
his own face by his book and the sleeve of his gown. The executioner
adjusted his wig elegantly, took up and minutely examined his crowbar,
and casting first a coxcomb look at the breathless spectators, brought
the bar into the air with a flourish, and down with a crash on the right
thigh of the poor prisoner. The agonising cry of the helpless man was
drowned in a tremendous outburst of applause from the crowd. When he had
been disposed of in each of his four limbs, Bec was treated in the same
manner. Then the assistants, seizing Hugues, threw him on the cross,
bound him, and the executioner lifted his bar in the air----




CHAPTER XVII

THE SAVING OF LA TOUR


Jude, who had the instincts of a Spanish Dominican, kept the closest
watch upon the judicial proceedings against the highwaymen. He was
promptly at the Chatelet at the time of their brief and summary trial,
and procuring a _caleche_, sped Versaillesward to retail the news to the
Noailles household. Having done so with considerable _eclat_ to her
Excellency, he pictured to himself an entrancing dream--that of awaking
a joyful sympathy between himself and Cyrene through this highly
congratulatory matter. She would smile upon him so divinely, so highly
applaud his zeal, and begin to compare him favourably with that new
butterfly, Repentigny, whose day must thenceforth come to an end.

It was night before he discovered her whereabouts, for she was at a
ball, accompanying the Marechale de Noailles, chief lady of honour of
the Queen. The Marechale was just then occupying the suite of apartments
allotted to her in the Palace, and there Jude waited impatiently until
half-past three before the young widow arrived in her boudoir
accompanied by her maid.

"You did not expect me here, Madame Baroness," he said.

"In truth I did not, sir," she replied with cold surprise.

"I am the bearer of good news to you."

"Indeed!"

"Madame was robbed last month at Fontainebleau."

"And you bring back my jewels, good Abbe?" She began already to seem
more radiant to him than he had dreamed.

"Not that quite."

"You mystify me."

"Madame will remember that three of the villains were caught."

"And Monsieur de Repentigny has found the others?" she cried, her
countenance lighting again.

The Abbe's face fell.

"No, I have more agreeable news."

"You are too slow, as usual."

"Complete justice has been done!"

Her face suddenly turned to motionless marble.

"You mean on those three men?" she asked, with horror, which surprised
him.

"Certainly."

"How?"

"Their legs will crack this very morning in Paris at eight o'clock."

"Those living beings whom I have seen, that cruel death!" she cried.
"Where is the Prime Minister? Christ help me!"

She took no heed of her flimsy, incongruous dress, her fatigue, her need
of sleep. Her soul was overwhelmed with the Christian desire to save,
and in her sudden energy the girl over-awed the reptile before her.

"Why do you wait, sir?" she exclaimed. "Conduct me to the Minister
instantly!"

"What, at this hour? In this manner? Does my lady reflect what will be
said to-morrow throughout the town?" he ejaculated.

"You have my command," she answered him, motioning to her maid to
follow.

Sometimes leading, and sometimes instructed where to go, the Abbe
preceded her through a long maze of chambers and passages, in each of
which sentinels were posted, until they came to the antechamber of
Monsieur de Calonne.

By good luck, the Minister, like herself, had not yet retired, but was
signing papers.

His astonishment was unbounded at both her appearance and her agitated
and remarkable request.

"Baroness," said he, "these men for whom you have such singular though
meritorious sympathy have flagrantly wronged yourself and the King. How
much better are they than the thousands who suffer the same fate every
year under the well-weighed sentences of the bench?"

"What rends me, sir, is to see human beings die, into whose faces I have
looked."

"That speaks well for your heart, Madame; but what about the laws?"

"Are laws just under which three lives are set against a few trinkets?"

"Well, Baroness, that is the business not of you nor me, but of the
magistrates. You admit at least the guilt of the criminals against
society?"

"What has society done for these creatures? What have we who live at
ease in Versailles done to make them good citizens? But I cease to
argue, my lord, and know that in doing so I am presuming beyond any
rights I might have. Listen, then, with your good heart--for all France
knows the good heart of Monsieur de Calonne--to the intercession of a
woman for three of her dying, neglected, and miserable fellow-men."

"They have a fair and powerful advocate," he said, smiling agreeably.

Calonne no longer resisted her appeal, but wrote the necessary order.
Putting profound gratitude as well as respect into her three parting
curtseys, she flew with it to her chamber.

"Get me an _enrage_," she exclaimed to Jude. An _enrage_ was one of
those lean post-horses specially used for quick travel to and from
Paris, a distance they could make in a couple of hours.

She would trust no one with the Minister's order, but rapidly threw on a
cloak and cap during the absence of the Abbe.

_Enrages_ were generally to be had on short notice day or night, but
this night it seemed as if there were none in all Versailles; her
anxiety and impatience increased, and she paced the room in agony of
mind. At last Jude returned, and announced the vehicle.

Descending hastily, she stepped into it, still commanding the
Abbe to accompany her. As it rattled forward, she kept her eyes
fixed impatiently upon the face of her watch. Half-past
six--three-quarters--seven--the quarter--the half--at length they were
checked at the Chatelet by the crowd surging and swaying around them,
with the wave-like confusion of the riot, heard the musketry, and
learned from a guard who ran to protect her the cause of the trouble,
and that the execution was about to take place on the Place de Greve.

Jude, in cowardly terror, fell back in a stupor, but the coachman was of
that Parisian type to whom popular danger was like champagne, and on the
promise of a louis he lashed his foaming horse to the Place de Greve.
The shrieks of the second victim and the shouts and drums informed
Cyrene only too well what was passing. She leaped from the cabriolet,
and rushed for the platform.

The strange sight of a beautiful Court lady in ball dress, pushing her
way forward in such agitation, had an instantaneous effect on the crowd,
and they opened a way to the centre. Stumbling past them, she threw out
the paper she carried towards the officer-in-command, and fell fainting
at his feet. Hugues de la Tour thus escaped execution.




CHAPTER XVIII

MADAME L'ETIQUETTE


The Oeil de Boeuf, the famous hall of the courtiers, had a magical
enchantment for Lecour. When he first rested his red-heeled shoes upon
its polished floor, having entered in the train of the Prince de Poix,
the courtiers were awaiting the passing of the King. There were many
faces he had not seen at Fontainebleau, and even those familiar showed
no sign that he was remembered here. The person who stood at his elbow
was an old officer, who had likewise entered with the Prince.

"I am come from the Province of Saintonge," said he, seeming glad to
unburden his confidences, "and I am at Court to obtain a great honour
for my son, who deserves it--my son, sir, the Chevalier de la Violette,
a very gallant youth. At Saintes, under de Grasse, he led the boarding
of two of our frigates, one after the other, which had been taken by the
enemy, and recovered them both. After the battle, he was taken up for
dead, wounded in eleven places. The deck was literally washed with his
blood. I am positive the thing has only to be mentioned to the King
himself for him to recognise my son's claims and appoint him
sub-lieutenant in the Bodyguard. I seek that for him because of the
great advantages and favours attached to it. The Prince de Poix must
first be induced to recommend him, for the prize is in his company; but
I have had the wit to secure in my favour the Princess's secretary, an
Abbe to whom I have given forty good louis, and who is to have a hundred
more in case of success. The secretary, sir, is very important. What a
shame how these low-born knaves rob us poor nobles, and make officers
and canons. We must, perforce, 'monsieur' them, and salute them a league
off as if they were their masters. The secretary even of the wife is
very important. The secretary is more important than the mistress
nowadays"; and the old officer laughed at his provincial witticism.

Lecour's eyes fell on a young guard, standing with sword drawn at the
door of the King's antechamber. "How secure is the place of these!" he
sighed to himself; "how insecure is mine!" A friendly voice sounded, and
he noticed Grancey stood before him. "Follow me before the King
arrives," said he. "My service is on the Queen to-day." Germain
followed. The air of mystery, characteristic of the courtiers, seemed
concentrated in their looks towards him as he passed. Their speculations
pieced together his entry with a powerful Prince and his familiarity
with a favoured officer of the Bodyguard; and his pleasing figure was
judged to give him the probability of advancement, to what height in the
royal favour no one could foretell. Those among whom he passed bowed low
to the mysterious fortune of the _debutant_.

The door through which they went led into the great Gallery of Mirrors,
a much more vast and beautiful hall than the Oeil de Boeuf. It was the
most attractive, in fact, in the Palace, for its range of long windows
commanded, from the centre of the eminence, the whole view of the
terrace and _parterres_, which was reflected upon the opposite side by
mirrors lining the walls. Every space, every door-panel here, even the
locks, was each an elaborate work of art. The ceiling was covered with
the great deeds of Louis Quatorze from the brush of le Brun. Antique
statues and caskets of massive silver, mosaic tables of precious stones,
and priceless cabinets, encrusted with the brass and tin-work executed
by the celebrated Buhl, furnished the Gallery.

Quitting Lecour, de Grancey stepped to the centre, and gave the word--

"Gentlemen of the Bodyguard, to your posts of honour!" and thus taking
command of the detachment, who were gathered in a corner of the hall, he
entered on his duty of disposing and inspecting them. No sooner was this
completed than a rustling in the Oeil de Boeuf informed them that the
King was passing. Shortly afterwards a noise like thunder was heard, and
the throng of courtiers poured in from the Oeil de Boeuf, and filled the
great Gallery of Mirrors. They had scarcely arranged themselves when
Germain heard a cry of "The Queen!" and beheld the radiant Marie
Antoinette advancing. The beautiful mistress of France passed along in
state with her suite, bestowing on one and another the attention she
considered due, to some a smile, to two or three a curtsey, to many
merely a glance. Noticing the humble worship in Germain's eyes, his face
and the exploit at Fontainebleau came back to her. She stopped,
therefore, as was sometimes her wont, and said graciously, "Monsieur, we
do not forget brave men," passing onward again. Instantly the Court
noticed the event, and exalted him in its esteem accordingly. But before
he could enjoy it, the entire scene was driven temporarily from his
thoughts and became a-whirl about another figure of which in the passing
train he became suddenly aware. It was the cold, impassive, scrutinising
face of an aged dame of such overweening pride and keenness that he
seemed to feel himself pierced through by her gaze. He had heard of the
severity of the Marechale de Noailles--"Madame l'Etiquette"--Cyrene's
patroness, and knew intuitively that this was she. The danger of his
situation became instantaneously real. The train, accustomed to
confusion, continued their advance. Only then did he notice that in
charge of this old dragon walked Cyrene, her look fixed brightly upon
his face.




CHAPTER XIX

THE COMMISSION


Lecour returned to the Hotel de Noailles overwhelmed with
forebodings--one of those revulsions which come during long-continued
excitement.

"End the farce, fool," he exclaimed to himself despondently, hurrying to
the quarters of the Princess. She received him "in her bath,"--a
circumstance not unusual and which meant a covered foot-bath and a
handsome _deshabille_ gown.

"Madame," he said. An emotion he could not quite hide caused him to
hesitate--"my days at Versailles are ended. I am come to present my
gratitude at your feet for the great kindness your Excellencies have
shown me. Believe, Madame----"

"Monsieur de Repentigny, you speak of leaving us?"

"It is too true."

"Truth is the only thing I find ill-mannered. Why should you leave us?"

"Because, Madame, it is my duty."

"No gentleman should have duties. Are you discontented with Versailles?"

"On the contrary it is the place where I should be most happy."

"This is a riddle, then. Plainly, you are indispensable to us. Can I
tempt you by some pension, some honour, some office? I have a benefice
vacant, but should dislike to see those locks of yours tonsured. What do
you say to the army?"

"It is impossible, for me."

"The army, I say, it shall be."

"Madame----"

"To-morrow I will hear your choice concerning this commission--horse,
foot, or artillery?"

One did not argue with Princesses--partly because Princesses did not
argue with one. He humbly retired, revolving an undefined notion of
flight.

By chance Grancey entered during the afternoon.

"Homesick, just at the nick of fortune? Do you know that a
sub-lieutenancy is vacant in my company? Sub-lieutenant, with rank of a
Colonel of Dragoons?"

"I did not."

"You must ask for it."

"That is out of the question, my lord." The gravity and humility of his
demeanour astonished Grancey, who surveyed him quizzically. "Is this a
new _role_, Repentigny, a part from _The Unconscious Philosopher_? Are
you ill?"

"I am leaving Versailles."

"Nonsense."

"And France."

"Never!"

"It is the case."

"But I have named you for the sub-lieutenancy."

Lecour looked up; but it was not enough to revive him from so deep a
slough.

"I must go, Baron."

"_Galimatias!_ You shall not throw away a commission in the Bodyguard of
the greatest Court in Europe. My brother-officers demand you, and you
must not desert me, your friend--your _friend_, Germain."

Germain went over to a window and looked out, to hide the tears with
which his eyes were filling. In the courtyard below a coach had stopped
at one of the doors. Cyrene was entering it. Why was she brought before
him just at that moment. This inopportune glimpse of her cancelled all
reasoning. With fevered sight he watched her till the coach disappeared,
and turning, said eagerly to de Grancey--

"Is not the Prince's consent required?"

"You agree!" Grancey cried, embracing him joyfully. "As to the Prince,
comrade," said he, "the sole difficulty is that he will grant anything
to anybody. We must get his signature--for which I admit it is delicate
to ask him--before any other applicant."

Lecour's pulses sprang back to life.

"Could the _Princess_ assist us?" he inquired.

"Perfect!" cried the Baron.

Germain returned to her apartment. The Abbe was handing her a paper and
saying--

"An entirely worthy gentleman, your Excellency, and wounded in several
of the King's victories, as well as of irreproachable descent."

Germain did not guess until it was too late that this was the petition
of the Chevalier de la Violette.

She was stretching out her hand to take the pen which Jude passed to
her.

"Madame," Lecour exclaimed breathlessly, "I have a prayer to make to you
immediately."

"Yes, Monsieur de Repentigny?"

"For a commission."

"Delightful."

"A vacant commission of sub-lieutenant in the company of the Prince."

She dropped the pen in wonder and looked at the Abbe Jude, whose face
turned sickly.

And so Germain obtained a great position.

"As a matter of form," said Major Collinot, the Adjutant of the
Bodyguard, at headquarters, "Monsieur de Repentigny of course proves the
necessary generations of _noblesse_?"

"Here is the herald's attestation, sir," replied Germain, producing that
which Grancey's intercession had obtained for him at Fontainebleau.

Doubly past the strictest tests of ancestry and reassured in boldness he
was now ready even to play cards with the dread Marechale de
Noailles--her who it was reported once said, "That although our Lord was
born in a stable yet it must be remembered St. Joseph was of royal line
and not any common carpenter."

The pomp and glitter of the new life appealed immensely to the youthful
instincts of the Canadian. The Baron detailed to his fascinated listener
the composition, privileges, and duties of the Gardes--

"We are thirteen hundred, Repentigny, in four companies--the Scotch, the
Villeroy, the Noailles, and the Luxembourg, each over three hundred
persons; we relieve each other every three months. Just now it is the
turn of our company of Noailles. Of the three months, each man spends
one on guard at the Palace, one at the hunting-lodge, and one at
liberty; after that we withdraw to towns some distance apart, those of
the Noailles company to Troyes in Champagne." He told with pride of what
good stature and descent it was necessary to be to be received, how
keenly sought after even the commissions as privates were, hence the
fine picked appearance of the body. He dilated on the various
instruments and startling costumes of his company's band; on the style
of their horses and the magnificence of their reviews and parades; on
the superiority of the pale blue cross-belts which distinguished them,
over the silver and white ones of the Scotch company, the green of the
Villeroys, the yellow of the Luxembourgs. These differences, he
asserted, were the greatest distinctions under the sun.

Let us in our colder blood add to his description that each of
these companies consisted of one captain, one adjutant, two
lieutenant-commandants of squadron, three lieutenants, ten
sub-lieutenants, two standard-bearers, ten quartermasters, two
sub-quartermasters, twenty brigadiers or sergeants, two hundred and
eighty guards, one timbalier, and five trumpeters. Germain studied the
roll with great interest.




CHAPTER XX

DESCAMPATIVOS


Winter passed. The company of Noailles returned from its quarters at
Troyes to Versailles. Whatever he did, his passion for Cyrene 
every thought and scene with an artist's imposition of its own
interpretations. The world in which she dwelt was to him a vision, a
poem, a garden.

A change had, it is true, come over his character; he became more
desperate, but if was only because the deeper had become this affection.
The incident of the reprieve of la Tour, which had meanwhile reached
him, sank deeper into his heart than the whole round of his pleasures,
and made him anxious for the moment when he might again meet her.

The society in which he found himself flying, like one of a tribe of
bright-plumaged birds in a grove full of song, centred around the Queen.
Marie Antoinette constantly sought refuge with her intimate circle from
people and Court at the gardens and dairy of the Little Trianon, in the
Park of Versailles, where it was understood that ceremony was banished
and the romps and pleasures of country life were in order.

In the month of June Lecour received a command to a private picnic here.
It was the highest "honour" he had as yet attained. As a Canadian he
had paid his respects in the beginning to the Count de Vaudreuil. The
latter was the leader in the pastimes of the Queen's circle, a handsome
and accomplished man, and one of social boldness as well as polish.
Though in his successes at Court he affected to forget that he was of
Canadian extraction, he yet evinced an interest in Lecour on that
account and showed courtesy to him. When the Count therefore one day
heard the Queen refer with favour to the graceful Guardsman, he added
him to the next list of invitations.

The guests, about forty, all approved by Marie Antoinette, included
members of both the rival sets at Court. The young Duchess of Polignac,
a simple, pleasant woman whom the liking of the Queen had alone raised
to importance, was there with several of her connections and friends.
The Noailles family, with its haughty alliances, its long-standing
greatness, and its contempt for those new people the Polignacs, was to
be chiefly represented by the amiable young Duchess of Mouchy, who came
late.

No picnic could have been more free and easy. The Queen herself looked a
Venus-like dairymaid in straw hat and flowered skirt, and it was
announced that the game of the afternoon should be that called
"Descampativos." The guests trooped like children from the Little
Trianon to a sequestered spot where lofty woods combined to cast a Druid
shade upon the lawn. Here Vaudreuil was elected high priest.

Assuming a white robe and mock-heroic solemnity, and standing out in the
centre of the grass, he sang forth in a strikingly rich voice--

"Let us raise an altar to Venus the goddess of these groves."

Four attendants, moving quickly forward in response, carrying squares of
turf, piled them into an altar as rapidly as possible. The party
arranged themselves in a quadrangle around it.

The altar being completed, Pontiff Vaudreuil proceeded with the mystery
thus--

"Listen, dryads and demi-gods, to the oracles of the divinity. The
decree of Aphrodite hath it that for the space of one hour there shall
be fair amity between----" Here he named the company off in pairs,
carefully pre-meditated. As pair after pair were called, they stepped
forward on the lawn amid a chorus of laughter, and swelled a procession
facing the priest and altar.

Lecour wondered as he saw the remaining number dwindle, who should be
paired with himself. Strict rules of precedence he knew would govern it.
At length, to his astonishment, he heard the words--

"Madame la Baronne de la Roche-Vernay, and Monsieur de Repentigny."

He looked hastily around.

It was then that two ladies were seen hurrying into the arena from the
direction of the Trianon. One was the Duchess de Mouchy; the other, of
the same age and dressed in a simple cloud of white tulle, came behind
her, and Germain, as if in an apparition, saw his Cyrene. Her obeisances
to the Queen and company over, she turned and courtesied very deeply to
her lover, who trembled with delight under her smile.

He was quickly recalled by the voice of de Vaudreuil, this time crying--

"Her Majesty of France, and her Majesty's servant and subject the High
Priest of the goddess."

It was the invariable custom of the ambitious and confident courtier to
appropriate the Queen to himself.

Pausing at the close, he raised his arm ritually towards the trees and
rested thus a moment speechless.

"Descampativos!" he suddenly exclaimed in a stentorian tone, throwing
off his robe.

At the word, the pairs broke ranks, the ladies screamed with merriment,
and all the pairs scampered into the woods in different directions to
follow what paths might suit them, bound only by the rule of the game to
return in an hour.

Germain and Cyrene strayed from the others into the groves, until the
voices grew fainter and fainter and at last died away. They walked on
without finding any necessity of speaking, for their glances and the
ever sweet pang of love in their breasts sufficed. At last they found a
little space with a fountain where the water spurted up in three jets
out of the points of a Triton's spear, and there being a seat there,
they took it, sat down, and looked in each other's eyes.

"My love," he whispered, kissing her cheek.

"Germain," breathed she slowly, her fair breast heaving, and suddenly
threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears. Sweet, sweet,
sweet, were the moments of their supreme bliss.

[Illustration: THE HOUSE OF THE GOLDEN DOG

_From the model by Thomas O'Leary in McGill University._]




CHAPTER XXI

THE SHADOW OF THE GOLDEN DOG


Two old marquises sat together in a parlour in Paris.

"Bring us the best wine in the house," exclaimed one of them, a bronzed
and dried soldier in a maroon coat, waving his hand to his lackey, who
responded and disappeared.

"Nothing," continued the soldier, turning to his friend, "could be too
good for my schoolmate Lotbiniere. Here are two chairs worthy of us,
generals among this spindle-shanked regiment. Sit down in that one while
I draw up here opposite. Throw off the wigs; there. We shall see now how
much of each other remains after our long parting. In India I never wore
a wig except to receive the Maharajah."

"Excellent, Pierre! There goes mine. Let us sit back and talk ourselves
into the good old days when you and I were youngsters."

"And a French king ruled Canada."

"And the French regiments marched its soil. Do you remember the hot
morning we stood hand in hand watching the Royal Rousillons wheel into
the Place d'Armes in front of the church?"

"How old were we then?"

"I was eleven; it was my birthday. Don't you remember?"

The wine came in and was set on a little table. The first speaker opened
a bottle and poured out two glasses.

Pierre le Gardeur, Knight of St. Louis, Brigadier-General, Governor of
Mahe and Marquis de Repentigny--for this was he--was a tall, spare man
whose complexion the suns of the tropics had browned, whose hair was
whitened with foreign service, and whose blue eyes and sensitive,
handsome features wore a strange, settled look of melancholy. Evidently
some long-standing sorrow threw its shadow over his spirit.

His friend, the Marquis de Lotbiniere, was a person of much more worldly
aspect, of largish build and beginning to incline to flesh, but whose
dark eyes were steady with the air of business capability and
self-possession. The care and finish of his dress and manner showed
pronounced pride of rank--a kind of well-regulated ostentation. His
family were descended from the best of the half-dozen petty gentry in
the rude, early days of the colony of his origin. He had by his ability
become engineer-in-chief under Montcalm. Yet from the point of view of
the Versailles nobility--the standard he himself was most ambitious to
apply--he was but an obscure colonel, and his title a questionable
affair. He acquired it in this wise.

At the fall of New France the last French Governor, Vaudreuil, passed
over to Europe and sold out his Canadian properties. De Lotbiniere, who
remained, bought them for a song, including the chateau in Montreal and
several large seigniories, chiefly wild lands, but growing in value. In
the original grant of one of them to the Marquis de Vaudreuil, he found
that it had been intended as a Canadian marquisate, an honorary
appellation, however, which the Vaudreuils never pursued any further.
This lapsed marquisate of the former proprietors gave Lotbiniere his
idea; proprietor of a marquisate, he ought to be a marquis. He
determined to find some way of procuring the title for himself. He
visited Paris as much and long as possible, and, by various devices,
kept his name and services before the War Office. During the American
Revolution he conceived the project of secretly negotiating with the
Revolutionists for the re-transfer of Canada to the French. He persuaded
the War Office to permit him to try his hand in the matter without
publicly compromising Versailles, and received, on pressing his request,
an equivocal grant of the coveted title, to be attached to his Canadian
seigniory, _but only if held of the Crown of France, and not of any
foreign power_. His secret negotiations at Washington failed and were
never heard of. He nevertheless called himself Marquis.

The two gentlemen were united by relationship, for besides the
inextricable genealogical links which bound together the chief families
of the colony, each had espoused a daughter of the Chevalier Chaussegros
de Lery, king's engineer, an excellent gentleman, who, like de
Lotbiniere, had returned to Canada after its cession and become a
subject, a truly loyal one, of the English Crown.

"I expect our good nephew, Louis de Lery, here in a few minutes," said
Repentigny. "He is in the Bodyguard, his father wrote."

"Yes, the company de Villeroy--a fine position."

"I wonder what the boy is like. Has he grown up tall like the de Lerys?"

"Yes, he does them credit, is very distinguished looking, with an air
which does not allow everybody to be familiar. Some call Louis cold, but
we _noblesse_ ought to have a little of that."

"No, no, Lotbiniere, none of it to white men. Not even to blacks and
coolies, but certainly none of it to white men."

"You speak from India where all French naturally are high-caste."

A look of pain came over Repentigny's features.

"No, Michel, that is not the reason. Alas! I once despised a man of
lower degree. My God, how could I do it again!" And his head dropped
upon his breast in profound dejection.

Lotbiniere started and paused, looking at him with great sympathy, a
cruel old remembrance awaking.

"By the curse of heaven, I have never forgotten it," continued the
other.

"Stay, stay," said Lotbiniere, leaning over and softly laying a hand on
his arm, "you were blameless; young blood was not to be controlled."

"It haunts me for ever," Repentigny went on; "in my wanderings all
around the world I see the blood of poor Philibert. I see again that
steep street of old Quebec. I hold again in my hand the requisition for
his rooms. I see the anger on his face, high-spirited citizen that he
was, that I should choose me out the best in his house and treat its
master as I did. I feel again my inconsiderate arrogance swelling my
veins. I hear his merited reproaches and maledictions. Rage and evil
pride overpower me, I draw and lunge. Alas! the flood of life-blood
rushes up the blade and warms my hand here, _here_."

"Calm yourself."

"He follows me."

"Nonsense, Pierre. No one is present," exclaimed Lotbiniere in a tone of
decision.

"Philibert's son. I met him in Quebec before I fled to France. I met him
in Paris before I fled to the East. I met him in Pondicherry. He settled
near me in Mahe. Now he is in Paris again. It is dreadful to be
reminded of your crime by an avenger. My death, when it comes, will be
by his hand, Michel."

"Have no fear. In twenty hours we can have him safe in a place whence
such as he never come out."

"That would be more terrible still. Shall I further wrong the wronged?
God would be against me as well as remorse. No, when he strikes it will
be just. I do not fear his sword, but the memory of his father's blood,
and that would grow redder on my hand if I injured the son. Oh, Michel,
is the Golden Dog still over the door of Philibert's house in Quebec?"

"Yes, Pierre; forget these things. Take a glass of wine."

"I remember its inscription"--

    "_I am a dog gnawing a bone:
    In gnawing it I take my repose.
    A day will come which has not come,
    When I will bite him who bit me._"

"Philibert, the son, has cut the same on his house at Mahe."

"There, there, we must be bright when young Louis comes."

"With you too, good Michel, I should be brighter. Well, I have spoken of
my sorrow for the first time in years, and now I feel freer. Yes, the
wine is good, better than any they ship to India."

Repentigny and Lotbiniere had just begun to regain their composure when
Louis de Lery entered.

He wore the uniform of the Gardes-du-Corps, the same as Germain's
company, except that his cross-belt, instead of being of pale blue silk
was of green, the distinguishing mark of the company of Villeroy, of
which he was a private. But then it must be remembered that with his
commission of private in the Bodyguard went the rank and prerogatives of
a lieutenant of cavalry.

On crossing the threshold he stood poised perfectly, and and bowed a bow
which was a masterpiece. His greetings, though so painfully accurate,
were obviously cordial, and after the first were over he smiled and
said--

"I now, sir, do myself the additional honour of presenting to you my
felicitations upon the happy event which has doubtless brought you to
Paris."

"Dear nephew, it is the serious state of our possessions in India, owing
to the advances of the English there, that brings me to France. Perhaps
I misunderstand."

"I mean, sir, the addition to our family alliances of a Montmorency."

"Indeed, I am unaware of such a distinction. Pray inform me. I have so
lately arrived."

"Is it so lately, sir, that you have not heard of the forthcoming
marriage of your son, my cousin, with Madame the Baroness de la Roche
Vernay? Pardon, if you please, my surprise."

"Still more mysterious to me! Of a certainty, my son Charles, your
cousin, is at this moment with his vessel and the Biscay fleet off the
coast of Portugal. I do not understand the chance which can have brought
him to Paris, however much I desire it, nor his alliance to any one
here, for I saw him in person three weeks ago at Lisbon, where he never
made the slightest reference to any such matter. There is some mistake,
I am certain."

"Is he not the only Chevalier de Repentigny?"

"There, can be but one of the name. It is rare."

"Has he not been lately appointed to a lieutenancy in the King's
Bodyguard, company of Noailles?"

"Impossible. I left him captain of the ship _La Minerve_. He has not, I
regret to say, the influence to become an officer of the Bodyguard."

"This is something strange," remarked the Marquis de Lotbiniere. "Did
you inquire who this officer was? Suppose, Repentigny, he should be some
distant relative of yours: he might be an addition to our influence at
Court. An officer of the Bodyguard, if we can claim him as a relative,
would be better than any alliance we possess, except Vaudreuil, who does
nothing for us."

"There can be no harm in Louis making inquiries."

"I will call upon him. Trust _me_ to find some connection and make use
of it."

"Are you still the marvel you were at genealogies, Michel!"

"Genealogy is a power. Louis, I am interested in this new relative. Can
you tell us more about him? Do you know his Province?"

"He is said to be a Canadian."

"A Canadian! Does he say so himself?"

"So report goes."

"Astonishing. How could any Canadian but de Vaudreuil--who owes it to
his exceptional gifts--acquire such influence?"

"They say this Sieur de Repentigny is extraordinarily handsome and
agreeable."

"But his name! There are so few Canadian families, you can almost count
them on your fingers--Fleurys, Bleurys, de Lerys, de Lanaudieres, le
Gardeurs, le Moynes, Beaujeus, Lotbinieres, la Cornes, Salaberrys, and
so forth. Can he be of these? He is not a le Gardeur, who alone in
Canada could have a right to the appellation 'Repentigny.' Have you
heard his family name?"

"He calls himself 'Le Cour de Repentigny.'"

The Marquis quitted his tone of alert judicial inquiry, and thundered
out, like a criminal prosecutor--

"Heavens, I have it!"

"What, Uncle."

"He is an _impostor_. No Canadian named Lecour can be what he
pretends--nay, not even a petty gentleman, for I know the whole list by
heart to its obscurest members. No Lecour whatever is on it. Who of that
name is at Repentigny? Only the merchant of St. Elphege, my old
_protege_. Can it be any of his people! What is the appearance of this
fellow?"

"He is about middle height, cheerful, graceful, hair and eyes black."

"It is that well-looking boy of Lecour's--no other. His father would
kill himself if he heard of his son duping the highest circles of
Versailles. Poor man, he was the least of the very least when I knew him
first--a private in my corps. I made him keeper of the canteen. How can
the son of such a one be more than a 'pea-soup.' What insolence and
folly! He shall learn that this kind of rascality is not permitted by
the nobles of France. Beast! animal!"

"See that you make no mistake, Michel. If he is only some foolish young
Canadian, would not a private monition be well?" said Repentigny.

"There is no mistake," answered Lotbiniere, decidedly. "As for lenient
dealings, do you think that is the way to keep down the lower classes?
The strong hand and the severe example are the only guarantees of social
order."

The irate Marquis rose from his chair and paced the room.

"Villain! The thought of him drives me beyond myself."

De Lery said little, but noted every word of his uncle's statement, and
it slowly took shape in his mind in a steel-cold deadly contempt for
Lecour.

The true Repentigny alone, his nature long purified of pride, felt no
malice nor indignation against this usurper of his name.




CHAPTER XXII

THE SECRET OUT


Louis Rene Chaussegros de Lery, that model of blue-blooded elegance, was
not the person to encourage any plebeian in basking in the smiles of
aristocratic society. There was an inflexible honour in him, as well as
pride, which was desperately shocked by the contrivings of Lecour. He
therefore detailed the story, without any heat but without any mercy, to
the mess-table of the company of Villeroy.

Two or three mornings later, Dominique came into Germain's sitting
chamber at Troyes and taking up his Master's service sword looked
closely at it as if to examine the polish on the goldwork. Such was his
custom when he had something special to say. Dominique's pieces of
information were invariably valuable. Germain therefore looked up from
the comedy he was reading and gave attention. Dominique related briefly
the rumour just come from Chalons: A Guardsman of the Noailles had
related it to a comrade in the presence of his servant, and the servant
had hurried to communicate it, with many questions, to Dominique.

Germain paled, yet only for an instant. He laughed at the Auvergnat, who
snorted apologetically--

"As if Monsieur _looked_ like a pedlar!"

"This is a righteous punishment for being born far away, Dominique," he
exclaimed; "all colonials must be either mulattoes or cheats; the next
time I am born it shall be in Chalons."

There was no parade that day on account of a _fete_.

He dressed himself in exactly as leisurely fashion as he had previously
intended and ordered a hack-horse to take him to Versailles. So far he
was acting; the world and Dominique his imaginary audience.

Only when he got out of Troyes and, having left the beautiful old
Gothic-cathedralled town some distance behind, was speeding along the
high-road, did he, for the first time, feel himself sufficiently alone
to face his thoughts. With a great rush of vision he seemed to see the
whole world of mankind rising against him--in its centre the form and
face of a scornful courtier--_the_ Repentigny, withering his pretensions
by one contemptuous glance, to the applause of the Oeil de Boeuf. He saw
the look of Madame l'Etiquette, the ribaldry of acquaintances at
Versailles, the studious oblivion of the Princess de Poix, d'Estaing,
Bellecour, and even Grancey; the mess-table derisive over the career of
the pseudo-noble; Major Collinot striking his name from the list of the
company; his arrest by Guardsmen disgusted at having to touch him; the
stony visages of the court-martial; the Bastille; the oar and chain of
the galleys. Truly they made no pleasant fate. Behind these, a white
figure, veiled in a mist of tears, at whose face he dared not
look--deceived by her knight, contaminated by his disgrace, her vision
of honour shattered, heart-broken, desolate, forbidden to him for ever
by the law which changeth not, of outraged caste.

"Alas! that it all should lead to such an end," he murmured.

By evening he was in Paris, and mechanically went to his old lodgings
where he tried to compose himself. A supper was brought which he left
unnoticed on the table. From time to time he would rise and walk about
the room, feverishly revolving events and fears.

"And these people," he exclaimed, "will dare to say that I am of a lower
nature than they. In what am I not noble? in what not their equal? Have
they not, for an entire year, approved of me, deferred to me, imitated
me? What is this miserable _noblesse_? Have I not seen that it is the
greatest boors that have the most claim to it. If it consists in
antiquity, where are the ancient gentry?--a remnant of pauper ploughmen
rotting on their driblets of land. If it lies in title, what is so
divine in the rewarded panderers to some unclean King? If it is
genealogy and parchments, with what mutual truth do they not sneer away,
and tell their tales upon, each other's lying pedigrees? In what sense
am I less well-made, less brave, nay, less truthful, than that cringing
rout at Versailles? Yes, all of you! the unbreakable word of my old
father encloses more real nobility than the entirety of your asinine
struts and proclamations? We shall see, too, whether _noblesse_ is
necessary to courage, for here and now I defy you all and all your
powers!"

A knock interrupted. It was the _concierge_, who handed him a card.
Without looking at it, Lecour replied--

"Tell him I am ill and cannot be seen."

The words upon the card might well have produced his answer. When the
door was shut he glanced at it, started, and held it in his hands,
fascinated by apprehension. It read--

"Le Marquis de Chartier de Lotbiniere."

In the name he recognised that of his father's patron.

"It is clear I must leave this place," thought he; and then it flashed
upon him that de Lotbiniere must have intended to call on _the other
Repentigny_.

"Yes, he would lodge here. Without doubt the reason this is de
Bailleul's resort is that it is a meeting-place for Canadians."

Putting on his hat and cloak he went down to the entrance, and in
passing out said as if casually to the _concierge_--

"Has the Marquis de Repentigny entered yet?"

"Yes, sir," the man returned.

Germain started out into the night, not knowing where to go. It was
about nine o'clock and dark overhead, but the narrow towering streets of
old Paris possessed a rude system of lighting and the life at least of a
great city, so that he felt less lonely than in his rooms, and walked on
and on for several hours.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE EXECUTIONER OF DESTINY


Lorgnette in hand, Cyrene was sitting in the music chamber of the Hotel
de Noailles, scanning the bars of a sheet of music sent her by her
suitor. Near by was the harpsichord on which she was about to try it,
when it seemed to her that a screen beside her trembled. Glancing for an
instant at it she was reassured. Almost immediately, however, it again
shook and fixed her attention, but after watching it for a few moments
and seeing no repetition, she once more turned away, satisfied that she
had been mistaken. Then suddenly she became aware that a man was
standing beside her, sprang to her feet and would have screamed had his
attitude not been so deferential.

He was dressed entirely in black, of the best materials and Paris cut;
his age was over fifty, and his features well made, but pinched and of
an ashen tint. His expression of strange woe roused her sympathy and
quieted her fears.

"Who are you?" she said.

He took no notice of her words.

"Are you la Montmorency," he asked, "the _fiancee_ of the Guardsman?"

"This is a strange question," she exclaimed. "How does it concern you,
sir?"

"Deeply, deeply. These are matters of life and death."

"What do you mean?"

"Do not fear, your lover is safe. I could have killed him, but did not."

She became roused and agitated, and the thought flashed upon her that
the man might be a maniac.

"You would not," she said, trying to reason with him, "have injured
anyone so good and inoffensive as Monsieur de Repentigny?"

"Repentigny!" he cried. "It is because he bore that name that I tracked
him to Troyes. It was a Repentigny who slew my father, and blessed was
the light of the street lamp which showed me your lover was none of that
brood."

"You would have killed him, you say?"

"I was to do so, but it was by mistake."

"Who are you, then?" she inquired with the greatest earnestness.

"The Instrument of Vengeance. Do you hear it?" he continued, as if
listening. "The Voice of Vengeance in the distance, approaching,
approaching, calling, calling? Nearer, year by year, month by month, day
by day, hour by hour, moment by moment, until when it reaches my side I
shall slay my enemy. When he fled to the farthest Indies, there he found
me; now he is in Paris, and finds me here; wherever he goes he has found
me. He knows his fate. He knows that I am the Instrument of Vengeance,
that a day shall come that has not come, that this hand is the hand of
heaven, and this sword the sword of the Almighty."

"You say he slew your father?"

"Yes, thrust him through on the steps of our house--the House of the
Golden Dog."

"What was your father's name?"

"The Bourgeois Philibert, of Quebec."

"And who do you say killed him?"

"Repentigny."

"But not my Germain!" she exclaimed eagerly and positively.

"No, he is none of that spawn of evil."

"You will bear him no ill-will at any time then?" she pleaded.

"On the contrary, he is now on my side. They are his enemies too."

"_Who_ are his enemies?"

"The Repentignys; but fear not, Mademoiselle, he is far superior to
them. He shall triumph and prevail, for I shall keep him, and heaven has
appointed me its Instrument. Nothing they do can prevail against me and
our side."

"Why do you say they are his enemies? They are not always enemies who
carry the same name."

"Mademoiselle, I see you know not _this_ name," he said with grave
courtesy; "I see you know not _this_ name--this name of sorrow, this
name of blood--my father's blood--alas! alas! alas! alas!" and his voice
trembled with infinite dolor.

"Oh, poor man," she cried, weeping. "I pity you."

He turned upon her a dazed glance, a glance out of a mind absorbed in an
unspeakable grief, and returning into his absorption, left the room.

She had been so keenly excited from instant to instant by the statements
of Philibert that she had not checked the interview. Apart from her pity
for him, the safety of Germain was the single issue of her thoughts, and
it was with alarm that she sat down and put together her impressions on
that subject. The mixture of woe with triumph on Philibert's countenance
affected her powerfully, and the words, "You know not this name of
sorrow, this name of blood," troubled her. The vengeance, the killing,
the family feud, to which he referred, what were they all? "Oh,
Germain," she thought, continuing to weep, "some heavy cloud is hanging
over you."

Meanwhile the scandal had spread to several circles in Versailles, and
was lit upon by the Abbe Jude, who, too happy to contain himself, ran to
Cyrene and invented an order to her from the Princess to attend in her
chamber; and when he had led her into the presence of her Excellency, he
addressed the latter--

"Madame has of course heard the new tale?" he said.

"Something fresh this morning, Abbe? Who does it concern?"

"Not the great Monsieur, the Prince, my lady, but a Monsieur of much
nearer acquaintance."

"Indeed? Monsieur Who, then? How interesting! Make no delay."

"The difficulty precisely is to say Who, Madame; but it is he who
_calls_ himself Monsieur de Repentigny. There is in Paris at this very
instant a _real_ Monsieur de Repentigny--no relation to our one--who is
publicly declaring our Canadian to have stolen his title, and to be
nothing less than a cheat."

He gave a malicious look at Cyrene, who turned pale and caught at a
chair. However, the great lady herself intervened.

"Stop, Abbe; stop, sir. This time you pass the bounds permitted you. How
dare you come into the presence of a Princess inventing such slanderous
monstrosities against your superior. A nephew, sir, of the Chevalier de
Bailleul, acknowledged by him as such to myself in his own chateau, is
above the aspersions of a contemptible plebeian. Let this be a lesson to
you, and never dare again to enter my sight. Footmen, conduct him out
of my presence and service. No reply! I am irrevocable in this."

"What is the commotion I heard?" exclaimed Madame l'Etiquette, entering
just after the reader's expulsion.

The Princess told her of Jude's insolent assertion.

"It is a serious matter. As likely as not it is true," Madame said, and
looked severely at Cyrene.

"I know it to be a falsehood," the latter retorted, with fiery
quickness. "Those people are his enemies. I have it on the word of an
honest man and a Canadian."




CHAPTER XXIV

A CURIOUS PROFESSION


It so happened that about midnight Germain crossed the Seine by the
Petit-Pont, a bridge not so public as the Pont-Neuf, and, regardless of
the robberies always occurring, plunged among the crooked streets of the
Latin Quarter. He had not walked far before a carriage, driving swiftly
away from a small lane or passage, attracted his notice. At the bottom
of the passage was a door having a lamp over it; upon the lamp some
letters and a device. He stopped and read--

    "MTRE. GILLES,
    GENEALOGIST."

The street in which he stood was a small cross street. He walked on and
left it, but the lamp, the inscription and the carriage haunted him like
one of those things which so often takes part in our reasoning before we
see its drift. All at once it became clear, he clutched at the hope,
retraced his steps to the small street, arrived at the passage, and went
up it to the door. The genealogist himself, a little red-faced man with
an agreeable air, a brown periwig, and a smart suit of black Lyons'
silk, was taking in his sign and preparing to put out the light in it.

"An instant, Monsieur Gilles," said Lecour, stopping him.

"With pleasure, sir," Gilles answered without surprise, and returning
the lamp, opened the door, showing a narrow stair.

Germain mounted and passed into a chamber, whose furniture was of
considerable elegance, and the gloom of which was relieved by a single
wax candle on a brass-footed table.

On the table were a mass of parchments which the genealogist had been
examining and tall cupboards, open drawers, and bookcases full of his
library stood around. A host of old portraits of all kinds and sizes
gave rich colour to the walls.

The stately manner of Germain caught his glance at once, and bowing
deferentially he inquired the name.

"It does not matter," said Germain.

"A Normandy squire," thought the genealogist, from something in the
accent. He invited his visitor to seat himself in the chair facing his
table, and took his own seat at the opposite side.

"I am newly arrived at Court," said Germain. "What is the best way to
become acquainted with the history of the great families?"

"Not in the least likely you come to me for that," thought the expert.
"It is simple," said he aloud. "Read my _Repertory of Genealogy_, which
is to be had for fifty livres of the bookseller Giraud, No. 79, Palais
Royal, and which is the infallible standard upon the subject, and is
read by the whole of the Court, the _noblesse_, the magistrature, and in
general the French nation."

"Very well, I shall obtain it," answered Germain; "but can you now
answer questions about some of the less conspicuous lines?"

"I have only, sir, to be told a name, and I guarantee for twenty livres
to relate in written abstract the history of every branch of it which
was ever noble. I also, for a fee, according to the difficulties, make a
specialty of resuscitating genealogies which have been dimmed by lapse
of time or by those misfortunes which often make it seem to the
inexperienced that such blood is ignoble--an impression which is without
question in itself the most deplorable misfortune of all in such cases.
I have discovered barons in chair-menders, and viscounts in
cheese-hawkers," and he looked at Germain cheerfully.

"Such things do not concern me," was the haughty reply. "I am interested
in a family named Lecour. I desire an account of the titles now or
heretofore possessed by persons of that name."

The professional consulted a register "L" on a shelf behind.

"The name is a common one, sir, yet the list is not long. Indeed so
common is the name, and so short the list of its stocks of distinction
that there have been but two. One is the well-known family of Amiens,
the other is now obscure."

"What branch is the latter?"

"The LeCours de Lincy, formerly a conspicuous race in the annals of
Poitou and very ancient. Their device: a golden lion rampant on an azure
shield."

"A golden lion rampant on an azure shield," repeated Germain musing.

"By chance the last of the de Lincys is known to me, and sleeps not far
from where we are sitting--a noble so old and poor that he never enjoys
firewood, and apparently lives solely on the sight of his precious
proofs of _noblesse_; a food which, excuse me, Monsieur, is, in my
opinion, very innutritious."

A ray of hope crossed Germain's mind.

"Would he sell these proofs?"

The genealogist at once understood Germain's position, but he would take
no mean advantage; he was honourable within his calling. He merely
answered--

"No, sir."

"Could you not obtain copies?"

"For fifteen louis."

"Here they are," replied Lecour, opening his purse and handing over the
gold.

The genealogist's ruddy face twinkled.

"Now," said Germain, "this gentleman of whom you spoke is my relative. I
desire to see him."

"To some men," replied the other, "I would say Monsieur de Lincy is part
of my professional plant, and I cannot give you the information. To you,
sir, it shall be different, for I take you for a man of honour, and all
I desire is your word that nothing will be done by you without payment
of such fees as I may ask."

"Agreed," returned Germain, repressing his expectancy.

"Then you can be conducted to him in the morning, and it must be by
myself, for otherwise he would not trust you. Will you accept a lodging
with me, a plain room, but no worse than at an inn."

Lecour only too gladly accepted the refuge; but before retiring he
said--

"My name is Lecour."

"I knew it," returned the genealogist. "Have no fear of my confidence. I
am not like the vipers who throng my profession. To proceed a step
further, I venture boldly the theory, sir, that you are the Monsieur
Lecour de Repentigny about whose title there has just been some little
question."

Germain's heart jumped, and he sat for a moment speechless.

"It is true," he said at last.

"You wish me to advise you?"

Lecour nodded.

"With my advice, then, the thing will be simple. First quit the name of
Repentigny, which will always create jealousies. I leave to yourself the
excuses you will make for having borne it--that you bought the seigniory
of that name or that you possess another of the same appellation, or
that it was very anciently a possession of your family. The armorials
show there were LeCours de Tilly; there were also LeGardeurs de Tilly,
related to the LeGardeurs de Repentigny. You might thus claim possible
relationship. But, as I have said, I leave to yourself the choice of
excuses on that point. Secondly, we must carry out your design of
allying yourself with old de Lincy, who is in such horrible need of a
friend, that it will be a benefit to you both; and thirdly, you must see
to the correction of all marriage contracts, baptismal and death
certificates, and other registers by the insertion of the noble
appellation which will then belong to your family. This is your case in
brief."

Lecour looked at him, heaving a deep breath of relief, and rising,
allowed himself to be shown to the sleeping chamber.

When about to breakfast the next morning, on the rolls and wine sent up
by the genealogist, he found a tiny package on his plate, opening which
he saw a handsome old watch-seal fitted with a newly-cut stone in
intaglio, showing a lion rampant on a shield.

The genealogist had had a jeweller cut on an old seal during the night
the arms of the de Lincys.

Speculating much, but saying little in reply to Gille's garrulity, he
set off with him to the old noble's attic. A voice, broken by asthma,
feebly called upon them to enter, and Germain's eyes fell upon, lying
on a tattered mattress by the window, the last wreck of a gentleman,
with whom he instantly felt the greatest sympathy. The rotten wood floor
and partitions of the room were bare of furniture except a worn box and
half a dozen dingy oil portraits of ancestors. The occupant's features
were pinched with sadness and starvation. His hair was white. He raised
himself with dignity to a sitting position, however, and received them
with a grave courtesy.

"Pardon us, Monsieur de Lincy!" the genealogist exclaimed; "I have made
a discovery which will be so interesting to you that I have hastened to
break it without waiting for the sun to rise higher."

"The hour is nothing," de Lincy replied; "I have always received
visitors in bed."

"But not always relatives."

A lofty look passed over the other's face.

"I am the only de Lincy."

"Will Monsieur lend me his seal?" said Maitre Gilles to Lecour. Then,
handing it to the de Lincy, he exclaimed, "Here is a discovery of mine!"

"What, are these my arms?" cried the old man.

"Yes, sir, preserved for generations in a distant colony by a branch
that does you honour. Permit me, sir, to introduce you to your cousin,
Monsieur LeCour de Lincy, of Canada, officer of the Bodyguard, and who
longs to make the acquaintance of the head of his family."

De Lincy bowed ceremoniously, and, glancing again at the ring, examined
it with avidity.

"The arms are those of my ancestors; and you say, sir, that this is an
heirloom of your family in Canada."

Lecour nodded.

"Your name is really----"

"LeCour."

"Discovered to be your cousin by Maitre Gilles, the expert in genealogy,
remember, Chevalier."

"You are very good, I admit," the old noble replied. "Yes, yes," he
mused aloud on recovering, permitting his eyes to rest on Germain's
face, "he resembles the portrait of my grandfather--that portrait on the
right. There is a tradition that a lost branch was flourishing somewhere
in distant countries. Maitre Gilles, under my pillow you will find the
key of my box--my muniment chest. Please to open it and hand me the
genealogical tree which is on the top of the parchments. Very good; here
then is the branch of which I speak, the progeny of Hippolyte,
lieutenant in the marine in 1683: it must be this line. The saints be
praised that the grandeur of our fortunes still has so worthy a
representative, and that I set my eyes once more upon a LeCour de Lincy.
To you these precious portraits of our forefathers and the priceless
titles to our nobility and to the ruins of our chateau shall descend.
They shall not be lost, despised and scattered. _O mon Dieu!_ I thank
thee."

With tears he reached his arms to Germain and embraced him, and so
strange is human nature that Germain, enclosed in that pathetic embrace,
began to believe himself really a scion of the lost branch of the de
Lincys, descendants of Hippolyte.

Gilles departed, Germain remained. He insisted on aiding the Chevalier
to dress, and on supporting his trembling footsteps down the stairway
and to the nearest _cafe_, where they fittingly celebrated the occasion.
The Chevalier eagerly brought Germain back to look over the chest of
documents, and gave him permission with joy to obtain authenticated
copies, and on parting, towards the end of the day, actually pressed
upon him one of those portraits, precious to him as his life-blood.




CHAPTER XXV

FACING THE MUSIC


Germain hastened back to Troyes, taking up Dominique on the way. It was
evening when his coach brought him past the gate sentry and through the
stray groups in the courtyard of the Quarters, so that he noticed
nothing particular until he entered Collinot's office to report himself.
The Adjutant received him with unusual stiffness. When he, soon after,
descended in his uniform and mounted to take command of the change of
sentries, the crisis arrived. A large, turbulent Guardsman refused to
salute him. Germain stopped, marked the man, and ordered his arrest.

"_You_ arrest me!" the private shouted, conscious of his equal rank with
the officers of the ordinary army; "you reptile, you huckster's son! You
order gentlemen about!--_you_, Lecour, the man of the stolen name!"

"Monsieur Brigadier, conduct this gentleman to the guardhouse," firmly
ordered Lecour.

He did it with so much dignity, despite the whiteness of his face, that
the Guardsmen--who had all been about to mutiny with their
comrade--recognised their duty, and obeyed his further commands. Their
hasty impression that the Canadian was an impostor was shaken by his
manner, and they silently agreed to await developments.

Immediately this brief service--which he performed to the letter--was
over, he changed costume quickly and walked into the card-room, where a
large company, including several Guards from Chalons, were engaged at
conversation and play. All eyes turned to him. He was seen to march
straight to the centre, and to stand a moment, pale and determined,
until all murmuring hushed.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I have just been insulted. I have been insulted,
but not so much by the man who lies under arrest, as by him, unknown to
me, who has been the cause of his offence. I am under no possible doubt
that all you who are present have heard the malignant falsehoods which
are being circulated about my origin within the past few days. Their
author, I am informed, is one Lery, a native of my country, who has
obtained in some way a position in the ranks of the company de Villeroy.
I wish to proclaim that I am about to demand of him a just
alternative--retraction or death."

"Bravo!" exclaimed a friendly voice--Grancey's. Germain had been
listened to with breathless attention, and approval appeared on many
countenances. His fellow-officers moved towards him. Even one of the
Guardsmen from Chalons, of de Lery's regiment, swore the latter had no
right to malign such a brave fellow.

"Adjutant de Collinot," he continued, "I appeal to you."

Collinot--the oracle of militarism--who was playing picquet, rose.

"Sir," said Germain, "I desire that this matter be regulated in the
manner that shall best preserve the honour of the company of Noailles,
of which you are the custodian. I must explain to you, for the regiment,
the facts concerning my title of Repentigny. The Marquis of that name,
it is true, is a Canadian, and was, until the British conquest a
generation ago, possessor of the estate of Repentigny, of which his
family, the LeGardeurs, have borne the name as their principal
designation. But this Lery, a man of very inferior pedigree,
notwithstanding his pretensions, has in his ignorance and presumption
overlooked a fact into which he should have at least inquired before
lying about a gentleman. He ought to be aware that the LeGardeurs have
ceased to possess Repentigny since the year 1763. Has he asked himself
what has become of it in the mean-time? Know then, sir, and gentlemen of
this company, that that seigniory being sold again, and again regranted
by the British Crown, has long ago become the property of my father in
perfect title. Does Monsieur Lery dispute the rule that a gentleman may
take the name of a property of his own or of his father's? Yet, in case
there be a technical defect for the purposes of a name in France, in the
fact that we unfortunately hold Repentigny of a foreign power, I am
ready--and indeed from this time forth intend--to recur to another name
about which no petty cavil can rise--for we are not so poor in titles as
to be confined to one--the original illustrious name of my
family--LeCour de Lincy. You, sir, have my attestation by the herald, in
the strictest form, and some of you, gentlemen officers, know under what
circumstances you have seen me in the family of the Chevalier de
Bailleul. I have one thing now to add to these evidences. As guardian,
sir, of the regiment, do me the honour and justice of examining these
papers"--here he handed him his new documents, and passed around the
family seal with its coat-of-arms. "Know me henceforth," he added,
"proven, by a designation above all question, error, or calumny, and
noble among the oldest in the kingdom--my ancestral name of LeCour de
Lincy. Adjutant, I respectfully demand your decision."

"The rules of the army," the latter answered, precise as usual, "are
satisfied by the attestation of the best authority in the realm on your
antiquity. The Company cannot take official notice of an unsustained
attack upon you; the defence of your honour in such a matter rests with
your own sword. Still, gentlemen, though not formally necessary, I am
pleased to hear a voluntary explanation so satisfactory to our military
family, whose duty it meanwhile is without doubt to support our
comrade."

And he saluted Germain.

The company present buzzed with agitation, and many began to speak low
together. Those from Chalons fixed their eyes towards a corner behind
Lecour.

And now in that direction a figure wearing the green cross-belt of the
company of Villeroy rose, pale, aristocratic, coldly calm, and said, "I
am de Lery."

The pallor that suddenly blanched Lecour's countenance as he turned in
the direction of the voice left it as quickly when he fully faced his
opponent. He measured him instantaneously, and the man he saw became
stamped indelibly on his mind's eye--a picture, in typical contemptuous
perfection of feature and dress, of the French aristocracy of the old
_regime_. The very chair on the back of which his hand rested seemed a
part of the type--one of those beautiful white chairs of the period, on
which, on snowy, glittering tapestry, was woven a Fable of Lafontaine in
matchless Gobelin dyes.

"Do you admit, sir, that you have defamed me?" Lecour cried, grasping
the hilt of his sword and advancing a foot.

"I defame nobody," Louis answered coldly.

"Have you not disseminated statements that my name is stolen?"

"I have said that the noble designation of Repentigny did not belong to
you--that its rightful owners are my uncle the Marquis of Repentigny,
now in Paris, and his family."

"Did you not know----"

"Stay, sir. I have also asserted that you are an impostor, the son of a
tradesman of Canada, formerly a private soldier of the Marquis de
Lotbiniere, and that you have not the slightest claim to consort with
gentlemen, still less to belong to the Bodyguard, and less again to
become an officer."

"Liar! liar! liar! Lery, it is _you_ who are the impostor! You are
afraid of those who can tell the truth about you, but I did not conceive
that you would carry our colonial jealousies so far as this. Do you
persist or do you retract?"

"The scene becomes disagreeable," said some of those present to each
other.

"It is colonial jealousy, of course," said others. "What have we to do
with it?"

De Lery stood looking at Lecour without moving, in imperturbable
contempt.

"I demand satisfaction," the latter hissed.

De Lery moved only slightly.

"The laws of honour," said he, "would bid me answer the challenge of a
gentleman. But do you flatter yourself they compel me to cross steel
with such as you?"

This was the cruellest blow, and under it Germain winced wrathfully. It
was so cruel that those present murmured, and some cried "Shame!"

"You _shall_ meet me! You _must_ meet me! Besides a slanderer, you are a
coward. Your company, whom you disgrace, have honour enough to make you
meet me," called Germain in tones of rage.

"Accept! accept! accept!" cried the Guardsmen of the company of
Villeroy.

"You ask me to dishonour myself?--to cross swords with an animal?"
exclaimed de Lery, turning angrily to his comrades.

"Shame! shame!" was the cry around the room.

"Gentlemen of the Bodyguard," said Collinot, "I must remind you where
you are."

D'Amoreau and the Baron led Germain off to his chamber. There they sat
down, and d'Amoreau wrote out a challenge, which Grancey, whom Lecour
chose as his second, delivered without delay.

Germain was strung to a frightful tension. When his companions, at
Grancey's suggestion, left him alone, he locked the doors and a storm of
apprehensions took hold upon him. The situation presented itself in two
deadly alternatives, either his annihilation in eternal darkness, or
else that his rapier must let out the red life-stream of a man who,
hateful though he might be, was but a speaker of the truth. In that
case, all would come out and justice have to be settled with, both human
and divine. Yes, that extreme justice--to be banished for ever out of
the world of Cyrene. Was it not the better alternative to permit himself
to die by the first thrust of de Lery?




CHAPTER XXVI

A DUEL


Nothing pleased de Lotbiniere better than shaping a policy. His dark
eyes were constantly full of plan, whether they looked at you or into
the masses of a boulevard flowing with people, or at his own prospects
or those of his family pictured in the future.

Upon the mother-of-pearl writing-desk in front of him lay his journal,
containing, in a close and perfect handwriting--of a piece with his
skill as a Royal Engineer in military designing--an industrious account
of whatever incidents seemed from day to day of use to him. The entry
visible at the head of the new page read--"Repentigny absolutely refuses
to prosecute the impostor."

The Marquis, however, was for the moment engaged upon a letter pressing
his interests with the Minister, and in which he was composing the
sentence--"Thus, my Lord, I find myself again in possession of the happy
privilege of humbly recalling to you my services, resulting, with those
of General Montcalm, in the great victories of Ticonderoga and Fort
William Henry, and I----"

He reached the bell-rope and pulled it. His servant immediately entered.

"You will take this letter which I am signing to the Palace of the
Louvre, where you will ask for the third supernumerary private Secretary
of the Minister, to whom you are to hand it with the money there on the
table, and say that it is sent by the Marquis de Lotbiniere. Repeat the
name _twice_ very distinctly to him, and see there is no mistake about
_third_ or _supernumerary_ or _private_. Here it is. Seal and carry it.
Have you brought me no mail this morning?"

"I was about to hand you this note, Monseigneur."

De Lotbiniere looked methodically at the seal, the handwriting, and the
date of the postmark.

"Go," he said to the servant.

The incoming letter was from Louis de Lery, begging his uncle's advice
in the affair of Lecour.

     "The horror I have," wrote he, after relating the circumstances,
     "is not of death, for in that respect I shall not be found unworthy
     of our ancestors. It is solely the horror--the disgust--of being
     compelled to measure myself with a being so ill-assorted. I cannot
     limit myself in expressions at my comrades who force this upon me,
     nor of detestation and repugnance towards _the creature itself_.
     What am I do? Your experience just now would be invaluable to me.

     "LOUIS R. C. DE LERY."

"_Peste_, what a fine mess for us all!" de Lotbiniere exclaimed. "The
persistence of this fellow is incredible. They say de Bailleul supports
him. I shall begin, then, by removing the support of de Bailleul. Louis
must not fight this duel."

He picked out a sheet from his pile of gilt-edged note-paper, laid it
down, selected a quill and tried it, then wrote de Bailleul a sharp
letter, as follows--

     "MON CHER DE BAILLEUL,--They tell me to my amazement that it is you
     who are the protector of the young Canadian Lecour, who is just
     now making such a noise as an adventurer. He has at least obtained
     a high commission in the Bodyguard by the use of your name. I have
     no doubt that you are aware that he is the son of Lecour of St.
     Elphege, my former _cantineer_. Can it be true that, knowing his
     birth to be so base, you go so far as to permit him the use of your
     position in these intrigues? If that be so--for I hesitate to
     credit it--let me go farther and remark that a most serious
     consequence has just followed his indiscretion. He challenges my
     nephew, de Lery, for a date fixed and imminent. We consider you
     responsible for this situation. I consequently trust that you will
     find some way to suppress your brazen-faced _protege_.

     "And I have the honour to be, sir, &c.,
      "THE MIS. DE CHARTIER DE LOTBINIERE."

"That will end him," remarked he, and reading it over, he folded,
addressed and sealed it, and putting on his hat and gloves proceeded to
the General Depot of the Post. There he took out his watch, noted the
hour and minute, and handed in the letter.

The Chevalier was then in Versailles, so that Lotbiniere's note reached
him quickly, and he replied--

     "MY DEAR SIR,--Your note is a great shock to me. I have not slept
     nor lain down all night, on account of the matter of our young
     countryman, which is one of the most unfortunate in the world. He
     is as a son to me; and out of my feelings for him I beseech you to
     treat him considerately, for you cannot know how sensitive and
     fine-minded he is; the immediate ruin would kill him. Let us rather
     combine to withdraw him more gradually from his false position.
     Cannot the quarrel between the young men be softened by gentle
     means? As for myself, I am ready to use my best influence with you
     in that direction."

The Marquis read the letter over twice.

"He is asking quarter," he ultimately pronounced; "clemency is asked of
the victor: well, I will be clement. Lecour shall first write a humble
retraction of all his claims. This shall be left in my hands by him for
thirty days, during which the pretender shall leave France. De Lery will
then exhibit the retraction, with attestations both by myself and de
Bailleul."

De Lotbiniere contemplated the cupids frescoed on the frieze urbanely.
He was victor.

A knock came, and the Marquis de Repentigny was ushered in.

"See," said he, "what is going all over Paris"; and he gave a newspaper
passage to de Lotbiniere to read.

The item ran--

"The duel between the two Bodyguards, Monsieur de Lery and the Chevalier
de Repentigny, took place this morning at four o'clock in the woods of
Bois du Lac. It is said that on account of some provincial quarrel, the
former had insulted the latter by denying his gentility, of which,
however, the Chevalier had made the amplest proofs on entering his
regiment. During the duel, he displayed the firmest yet most amiable
spirit, and having disarmed M. de Lery upon the _coup de tierce_,
magnanimously refused to draw blood. The seconds then interfered and
declared the honour of the combatants satisfied."

"Devil! _Peste!_ Species of pig!" de Lotbiniere cried, his rage finding
too few words.

"I just now heard some more details from an officer of of the Lambesc
Dragoons," Repentigny continued. "My namesake was perfectly silent;
Louis, on the contrary, quite unlike his ordinary manner, made no
attempt to control himself. He never ceased to exclaim, 'Clodfoot!
Impostor!' and to taunt the stranger at each stroke with his father's
origin. Finally Louis was disarmed, whereupon, with the same silence,
Lecour handed back his sword--'with great dignity' said the Dragoon, and
Louis refused to receive it."

"'With great dignity!'" shouted de Lotbiniere--"You speak as though you
had no feeling."

"On the contrary," replied Repentigny, "I am very sorry for every one
concerned."

"Save your pity! I shall now bring up my heavy guns."




CHAPTER XXVII

JUDE AND THE GALLEY


The Council of the Galley-on-Land were gathered again in Gougeon's shop
at two in the morning. All Paris was sleeping, and even the orgies of
the Beggars' Ball had sunk to silence. There was animation among the
Council, for in a corner, not at first visible, lay a subject of
debate--a prisoner tightly bound with a rope. Each man held some piece
of sharp iron, Wife Gougeon her pistol. The Admiral sat wrapped in his
brown cloak.

"_I_ caught him!" shouted Hache hilariously; "I caught him myself."

"Who is he?" the Admiral asked.

"The sheep that followed me. They have followed me ever since the
breaking of Bec and Caron. This one was the worst. He follows you along
like a lizard under a wall; but I caught him, I caught him!"

A stifled struggle with its fastenings were heard from the bundle in the
corner.

"Bring him over," order the Admiral.

Gougeon and Hache went over, lifted the bundle, and deposited it in the
centre of the group, where the candle rays brought out amidst it the
lines of a face. A woollen gag was across the mouth, the eyes were
bloodshot and fear-distorted, but the features were unmistakable. They
were those of Jude.

Jude, when deprived of the favour of the Princess, had offered his
services to the police administration. He was set on the track of Hache,
whom he successfully shadowed and was about to expose, together with the
Gougeons and their den, when his victim caught him.

Gougeon took hold of the prisoner's hand roughly, and bound a new gag
under the chin and tightly over the head; he then loosened the mouth gag
and turned away, without any interest in the sequel, to pick at a
driblet of grease running down the side of the candle.

The change in the gags allowed of speech between the teeth while
preventing the prisoner's mouth from opening to cry out.

"Spy," said the Admiral severely. "You are in the service of the
Lieutenant of Police?"

"Oh, no, sir, I pray you," Jude hissed. "I am no spy, a poor Abbe only;
and in the name of the Church----"

"The Church is one of our enemies."

"But I am not in orders--a secular, a reader, a poor companion. Oh, let
me go and I will do you no harm. I have some money--eighty-five
florins--at my lodgings; let me but go and bring it."

"And betray us all!" screamed Wife Gougeon. "No, Monsieur Abbe. When you
go from here it will not be to sing."

"Monsieur will doubtless sign an order for us to draw this sum," said
the Admiral most suavely.

"Immediately on my release," gasped the Abbe.

"It is more just that we should have the money first."

"But I am dying of fear. I have no courage. Listen, listen, I pray of
you good people. I shall give you all I have and fly from you for ever
as far as I can."

"Unbind his right hand," commanded the leader. "Is there any paper
here?"

"His own book. I took it from his pocket," said Wife Gougeon, handing
over a note-book.

The Admiral pounced upon it. The first entry he read aloud was headed
"_Hache--ex-convict_," succeeded by a description; following it were
memoranda concerning several others of the gang; further on, the number
and street of the shop, and at length an entry: "_The Admiral, an
individual of Brittany, who seems to have some connection with these
people._"

"Oho!" he cried, "Monsieur Abbe, what do you say to this?"

A hoarse, long groan was the reply.

Femme Gougeon came over to him, and putting her glittering eyes just
over his, caught his neck with her left hand, and stretching her right
up to Gougeon said "A knife!"

"No," the Admiral exclaimed peremptorily. "What would you do with the
blood? To the rats with him rather, like the others. Hache, the trap."

The ex-felon staggered across a pile of scraps, and raised a triplet of
planks which covered a pit. A sickening odour arose.

"Down with him," continued the robber Captain.

"But his money?" murmured Gougeon.

"Never mind it."

All the men present caught up Jude and hurried him quickly over the
gaping hole, in which he could hear a scuttling of vermin feet and a
chorus of squeaks.

"May the next be Repentigny!" the Admiral began. "Now up with him----"

A death-like hiss rose from Jude's lips, "Repentigny? He is my enemy
too. I will be your slave. I have too much fear of you to ever harm you.
Let me tell you about this Repentigny. Life, life, I beseech--I
beseech--beseech you!"

"Back a moment!" the Admiral commanded.

Jude was carried once more into the candle-light.

"Who is the Repentigny you say you know?"

"The officer--of the King's--Bodyguard."

"What do you know about him?"

"I lived in the same house at Versailles--the Hotel de Noailles."

"Then you are an aristocrat?"

"Oh, no, sir; do not accuse me--only a servant--one of the people--and I
was dismissed."

"A reader, you said. Well, what of this Repentigny?"

"I could inform you concerning all his movements were you only to
release me."

The Admiral looked away and reflected several minutes. His sinister
countenance was watched with terrible constancy by Jude. At length the
victim caught what he took for a relaxation of the cruel look on the
face of the Admiral, who rose and tapped upon the box on which the
candle stood.

"Ragmen," he said. The spy's breath stopped in his suspense. "Ragmen,
carry him back."

It was a terrific blow to Jude, who still, however, retained
consciousness, though now incapable of even hiss or contortion. He was
held over the trap again, and the leader once more commenced speaking.
"Spy," he said, "you have been condemned by the Galley-on-Land to the
death which now yawns beneath you. Men, lift him up till I give my final
order." He paused a time; it seemed an eternity to Jude.

"Monsieur Spy," continued he. "Are you ready, in return for your life,
to serve the Galley-on-Land, of which I am Admiral, before all other
masters; to go where I bid you, to do what I command, to inform me of
whatever will protect us; to succour a ragman before every other
consideration!"

"All," the prisoner gurgled, with his last strength.

"Then live."

They hurried him back and laid him down on the floor unconscious.

"Yes, the order must be reversed: Repentigny first, this one
afterwards," mused the Admiral, who could do nothing without indulging
his turn for brutal melodrama.




CHAPTER XXVIII

ANOTHER DUEL


Lecour's temper gave out at the irreconcilability of Louis during the
duel, and as soon as he reached the quarters he commenced to return
insult for insult. He exclaimed among his companions that _Lery_, as he
called him, and his family were petty skin-merchants of Quebec and kept
a shop in their house; that his father had acquired some contemptuous
favour with the British Governors on account of his having been the
first Canadian to turn traitor to the French King, and that _Lery's_
lies and slanders were just what was to be expected of a breed so base.
The sympathy of the company was with Germain. All took his part, and his
statements were reported to the officers of the Villeroy. The latter
insisted on de Lery's vindicating his and their honour by another
challenge, and compelled him to write it the same day; and Germain
received it during the evening. The second who forwarded it politely
requested that the time to be named be soon, as the Villeroys desired to
return without delay to Chalons.

"Let it be immediately," answered Lecour. "There is a full moon and no
need to wait another hour."

So the adversaries, with seconds and surgeon, rode out to an open spot
in the same wood as before, where the two stripped off their coats and
waistcoats, tucked up their laces, were handed their rapiers, and
commenced.

From the first it was evidently to be a deadly fight.

Conscious of this, however, they were both on the watch, and it was some
minutes before more than a pass or two was made, and these without
result. The moonlight, too, though the seconds had placed them as fairly
as possible, was at best not absolutely clear and enforced prudence, for
even the brightest moonlight is deceptive.

At last de Lery, with a clever movement, got in a savage thrust, from
which Lecour only saved himself by extreme alertness with a little graze
of the neck. De Lery was the better trained swordsman of the two, and it
was evident that his loss in the previous duel was due to his furious
recklessness on that occasion. Now that the blood of both was up de Lery
had again the superiority.

No sooner had the seconds permitted the fight to continue, after the
scratch to Germain, than the latter, stung by rage, instantly thrust and
hissed--

"Son of a traitor!"

The wild passion which these words aroused in de Lery saved Lecour. As
it was he was nearly disarmed, and was subjected for several minutes to
a series of onslaughts, which called on all his activity and the whole
strength of his wrist.

"Hound! hog! soul of muck! _canaille!_ adventurer! cheat!"

Such epithets came thick and fast with the strokes of de Lery, and were
answered by "Slanderer! reptile! traitor! liar!" from the set lips of
Lecour.

At last, with a fiery spring, de Lery, having lost all self-control,
threw himself upon his enemy, and received a terrible slash up the
sword-arm, which finished the battle and threw him sidelong on the
ground, while bright red blood spouted all over his breast, and the
surgeon and seconds ran to attend to him. He lost consciousness and fell
back, limp and ghastly.

No sooner had he fallen than a figure in black sprang out of the wood,
brandishing his sword, and shouting--

"Well done, our champion! I will finish your work"; and rushing at the
prostrate man, over whom the seconds were bending, he pushed them aside,
and was on the point of driving the weapon into his body.

Lecour threw himself forward and struck up the steel with his own.

"Coward!" he shouted, preparing for further defence of his late
antagonist, while the astonishment of Grancey and his fellow-second at
the apparition held them momentarily helpless.

"I am no coward, but the Instrument of Vengeance. His blood has slain
mine. The scales of heaven are nice to a hair. Let me kill him!" and the
stranger's sword glittered again in a sudden movement. But this time
Grancey seized him, and his colleague assisted in overcoming the man's
struggles.

"It is a madman," said the surgeon, his hands occupied with his
bandages; "keep him safe till I can finish this work."

"A madman, yes!" shouted Philibert; "and who made me mad? It was one of
this man's race of murderers and traitors. Justice will only sleep when
he too dies by the sword, like my father, whom they slew. Let me strike!
let me kill him! or, if you will not let me kill him, I will depart, for
the hour of Justice it seems is not yet."

"Depart quickly then," sternly said the surgeon, taking advantage of the
turn in his mood, and at the words the seconds released the maniac.

Philibert ran again into the woods and disappeared.

"There is too much loss of blood--too much," the surgeon remarked
gravely.

Lecour, wondering and agitated, divined, while the others were occupied,
the identity of the visitant.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE LETTRE DE CACHET


Lecour had succeeded for a time in baffling the forces arrayed against
him.

The next turn was made by de Lotbiniere, who entered in his journal his
intention of now speaking to the following persons, in their order--

The Minister,
Repentigny,
The Chevalier de Villerai,
Vaudreuil,
The Genealogist of France,
The Prince de Poix,
The Marechale de Noailles,
The Baroness de la Roche Vernay.

He went to the first on the list and obtained an interview in private
with his chief secretary, from which he issued with a large sealed
envelope, which contained a handsome parchment in blank, signed "Louis."
It was a _lettre de cachet_, one of those warrants by which a man might,
without warning to his friends or any charge laid, be arrested and
imprisoned in one of those fortresses whose walls were so many living
graves. He took it to the lodgings of Repentigny.

"Pierre, I am on the campaign against your namesake!" exclaimed he.

"Then you have heard the latest news?"

"Not if it is fresh to-day."

"An hour old. There has been a second duel between our Louis and Lecour.
What a pity!"

"A pity? it is an infernal outrage! Another duel? Oh, my God!"

"Lecour became impatient----"

"_Impatient_, forsooth!"

"And exclaimed among his companions that _Lery_----"

"Curse his insolence!"

"That _Lery's_ family were skin-merchants."

"The pig and scoundrel! he shall sting for this. Why do you hold
yourself so calm, Repentigny, when your family is insulted?"

"Frankly, because it is not altogether untrue."

"_We_ in trade? Our nobles skin-merchants? Is it thus that you will
allow the King's permission to our order to engage in the fur trade to
be stigmatised?"

"I have, Michel, seen the ways of many peoples. I have learned to look
on the castes of our Canada with the same eyes as I look on those of
India, the eyes of amusement, for I find in mankind everywhere the same
tendencies and the same pretensions."

"But this beast of a Lecour is a liar and impostor."

"Both."

"Then I will show you your duty. Open this envelope. You have only to
fill Lecour's name into the warrant it contains, and he goes under lock
and key in the Bastille."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"He is a brave man."

"Tut, you madden me, Pierre. The worst felons are bold."

"But not generous. Lecour saved Louis's life from the blade of a madman
at this duel. I know too well how that madman would have thrust. We are
both mad--he and I, pursuer and pursued--I have brought it down on both.
Poor Louis! have I pulled down the wrath of God also upon you? What is
this, Michel, that you have brought? Consider what you ask me to do? To
think that any man of our free colony would use a _lettre de cachet_,
and against a brother Canadian! The thing is damnable," and he flung the
parchment into the fire, where it curled up instantly as if sensitive to
the flame, and cracked loudly with bursting blisters.

"Pierre, you are a cursed fool!" de Lotbiniere retorted violently, and
left, while Repentigny's face became clouded with an unspeakable torture
of sadness.

The Chevalier de Villerai, who was next on de Lotbiniere's list, was one
of the quartermasters of Louis' company, and de Lotbiniere, to see him,
would have had to journey to Chalons, some fifty miles away. Being a
relative, he instead wrote him. He received a reply, enclosing one from
de Lery, who was lying ill of his wound. From the embittered sentences
of his nephew, de Lotbiniere learned of the insistence of his comrades
on his sending Lecour the challenge, and of the result to de Lery's
right arm. Louis vowed that he would more willingly seek him the next
time, and that the fight would be at sight without any formalities. He
told nothing of Lecour's act of mercy, of which he was apparently
uninformed.

The quartermaster was an easy-going, large-framed man who regarded most
things as an occasion for drinking and joking. He willingly undertook
to assist de Lotbiniere to act for the de Lery party among the
Guardsmen, and to take charge of any petitions which might need to be
presented to a military court. He protested good-humouredly, however,
that "he was a _sabreur_, not an advocate." De Lotbiniere, having made
these arrangements, went to Versailles and saw the Count de Vaudreuil.
The Count blandly alleged himself "ready to oblige Monsieur de
Lotbiniere in any manner in his power."

The Genealogist of France was much interested in the Marquis's story,
and certified in writing that the family name of the Repentignys was not
Lecour, but Le Gardeur.

The Marquis now went to the Prince. He asked for a private audience and
was admitted. Though Poix had not the remotest idea in the world who he
was, yet he received him with obliging courtesy, combined with a certain
customary hauteur.

"'Lecour,' you say, Monsieur? Is that the name?"

"Yes, Prince," the Marquis returned.

"I do not know any such person."

"His stolen appellation is Lecour de Repentigny."

"Repentigny? ah, I know, I know."

"As I have said, sir, the man is a cheat. Here in my hands are proofs of
it, and I, myself, am personal witness against him."

"Ah, this is serious, this is serious," repeated the Prince in a
disturbed tone.

"Your Excellency will, then, order his expulsion from the company?"

"Ah, you ask much, you ask much. I refer you to my adjutant. He manages
those things," and with a slightly impatient gesture the Prince bowed,
and de Lotbiniere knew that he must go.

He next proceeded to Troyes to see Collinot. That officer examined
particularly the Genealogist's certificate, went to the records,
compared it with the former attestation, arrived at a conclusion. He
treated the matter as of its full importance, and the only respect in
which he disappointed de Lotbiniere was that he did not share the
latter's violent feelings.

"The young man has been an efficient officer," he said regretfully, "and
his conduct that of a gentleman. He is very unfortunate at an age when a
man feels such misfortune keenly. It is regrettable for all of us. But,
no doubt, we must do our duty."

"And preserve our young officers from consorting with the scum of the
people, Monsieur Adjutant."

"He is scarcely scum, sir. One must allow that in point of form he is
_parfaitement bien_. It is likely that the fortune of his father has led
him quite naturally to believe himself fit for the regiment."

"He ought, instead, to have been standing aproned in a pork-market. He
deserves the galleys."

"You are interested, Monsieur, and look at the affair with personal
annoyance. As for me, I am guided solely by the royal ordinance
requiring proofs of sixteen quarterings for entry into the Bodyguard. If
Monsieur Lecour--who is now de Lincy--not Repentigny--cannot show them
satisfactorily, he does not fulfil the ordinance, that is all. He is
to-day at a shooting party."

"This Lincy name is a worse imposture than the other. I tell you,
Monsieur Adjutant, it is _impossible_ for such folk to have nobility."

"Pardon me, sir," said Collinot, taking out his watch. "May I invite you
to review the force?"

"I must deny myself this great honour, inasmuch as I am not ready with
your new infantry drill," returned de Lotbiniere, intensely flattered
at an invitation to review Bodyguards.

Besides, he had at last, he said to himself, effected his point. So he
ordered his carriage and departed for Paris to pursue the rest of his
plans.




CHAPTER XXX

THE HEAVENS FALL


When Germain returned from the shooting party, he was sent for from
Collinot's office, and upon his entering, the door was closed.

As the closing of Collinot's door was an unusual proceeding, and was
known among the regiment to denote something very particular,
speculation and excitement immediately became rife, and the news that
Lecour was closeted with Collinot spread like wildfire.

Germain, rosy and active, saluted his superior gallantly. The latter
returned the action with a non-committal countenance.

"A gentleman calling himself the Marquis de Lotbiniere has just been
here. Do you know him?"

Germain braced himself.

"I have heard of him in Canada," he said, "but his Marquisate is not
believed in there."

"You Canadians have strange tales of each other. He is apparently a very
respectable man, and supported his allegations about you--which are in
substance the same as those made by Monsieur de Lery--by a certificate
from the Genealogist that the family name of Repentigny is LeGardeur,
not Lecour."

"Did he admit that he is an uncle of my adversary, de Lery, and has the
natural malice against me of a relative of my antagonist?"

"I have made due allowance for his bias, Monsieur Lecour."

Germain's heart sank at the form of the name in which he was addressed.

"The difficulty," proceeded the Adjutant, "is in your papers; for,
however the truth may stand as to your position, your proofs to the
regiment were made under the title of Repentigny, a designation which
you have abandoned. My position, as representing and protecting the
regiment, therefore, is that I hold no proper proofs that you possess
the generations of descent which you are aware are necessary. I now have
the honour of calling upon you to produce such proofs."

"Very well, sir," answered Germain, and leaving the room, strode to his
quarters and returned with the de Lincy copies.

Collinot scanned them carefully. Germain, waiting silently, noticed that
on the whole he was not displeased.

"Only the past two generations are lacking," he pronounced, "your
certificate of baptism and those of your father and mother, together
with their marriage contract. Why are they not supplied?"

"I have no doubt they can be. With your permission, I shall send at once
to Canada for them."

But Collinot was silent again, looking over the documents.

The story de Lotbiniere was likely to have told crossed Germain's mind,
and he went on--

"I have no doubt the enemies of my family mentioned every
disadvantageous fact. If it is that my father is in trade, let me say
yes--as the greatest merchant in his country and the equal of any one
there--and let me add that the decrees of our King always permitted
_noblesse_ in Canada to engage in commerce, from the circumstances of
the country, just as those of Brittany are permitted to enter the
commerce of the seas. That is therefore no derogation."

"It is not that which troubles me, lieutenant," Collinot answered, "but
the certificates in themselves are incomplete in lacking the links I
mention. Without them," he said, rising to his feet and looking at
Lecour calmly, "you can no longer serve in the Prince's company."

The blow fell hard.

Germain sank down in a chair and turned his face aside.

"My God, she is lost to me," he murmured. Collinot caught the words. The
natural kindness of the man overcame the formality of the
disciplinarian, and he went and placed a hand upon Lecour's shoulder.

"You know, sir," he said kindly, "that one is not master of his birth,
but of his conduct. Yours has been blameless. I sympathise with you
greatly."

"Anything but this! Ruined, ruined--what ruin and disgrace!"

"Not so, my boy; there is no disgrace in being less wellborn--it is only
that one possesses a few privileges the less."

"How am I to leave, sir? Shall I not have permission to seek my proofs
in Canada and return?"

"If you can obtain the proofs you shall have your place again."

"Grant me but a few days to arrange my affairs."

"In your own interest let me advise you not to make it more than
twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-four hours?"

"Twenty-four."

"Twenty-four hours!" repeated Lecour, dazed. "Can I have the privilege,
then, at least, of wearing the uniform until I leave France?"

"That cannot be."

"May I ask but a certificate of having served, with honour in the
company?" he gasped.

"It is due solely to those whose original right to have entered the
corps is without dispute."

"Alas! all who have known me in my former state will ask why I have
ceased to retain it." Pallor and despair seemed to have transformed him.

"Were I not a soldier," sighed Collinot, making a great effort to
repress his own feelings, "I should under these painful circumstances
most gladly write you a certificate. Remember me ever as one who would
have liked to be your friend."

"Oh, sir, you have been too kind to me," Lecour cried, in a voice of
agony, his eyes running tears; and grasping the hand of the Adjutant, he
wrung it affectionately, and could speak no further. Sobering himself
and turning quickly, he made his exit. Many curious eyes furtively
followed him and guessed the secret as he strode along to his apartment.

Grancey came to him in a few moments, furious.

"The whole company holds there was never such a conspiracy--what can we
do?"

"Nothing--nothing--nothing."




CHAPTER XXXI

ONE DEFENDER


Cyrene passed down her favourite oleander path at sunset to the great
vinery in the Noailles garden. The oleanders were covered with their
roseate blooms, and their beauty and that of the garden in the soft
sunset light mysteriously deepened with an undefined regret the sadness
and fears which were hers of late.

"Why do you not come to me, Germain? Why have you not at least written
me a few words in reply to mine? Only a few words, my dear one--only the
least line," she murmured to herself.

She passed on to the vinery, where sitting down under the interlaced
green she became still more abstracted.

"Oh Germain, some great danger is above you. Who are those enemies of
whom the Instrument of Vengeance spoke? What is this web of murder and
madness in which they are involving you? I pray God to keep you safe, my
love. Ah, what bliss to have you mine, _mine_, and be yours. At last, at
last we shall have somewhere a sweet _chez nous_ to ourselves."

The loveliness of the oleander blossoms and the sunset over the garden
made a harmony with her dream. To the widow who had been no wife, the
girl who had seen no girlhood, the child who had never had a home, the
lady who was losing her life in gilded servitude, that dream was dear.

The sound of a silver bell broke in, the signal that she was in request
by old Madame l'Etiquette. A sigh escaped her, and she hastened to the
house.

To de Lotbiniere, to have effected his point had not been enough. To
humiliate Lecour with the ladies with whom he had ingratiated himself
was yet, in the opinion of this vindicator of public interests, demanded
by justice to society, so he had wended his way that afternoon to the
Hotel de Noailles and applied at the portal of the Marechale. There he
was kept waiting while his name was sent in.

"The person is not on my list," she said. "Present my regrets." Covering
his irritation with a smiling face, as courtiers must ever learn to do,
he asked for ink and paper and patiently wrote her on the spot a
respectful and pointed warning on the danger to Cyrene. His missive
struck the dominant chord in the breast of Madame.

"What," she cried on reading it "de Lincy a cheat! No questionable
person shall ally himself with the royal blood of the Noailles and
Montmorencys! This is what comes of relaxing the old rules, the old
customs, and admitting new people. It is what comes of this Austrian
Queen." Ah--she glanced around quickly to see that none but her
lady-in-waiting heard those last words.

"Show the man in," she added. The lady-in-waiting transmitted the order.
De Lotbiniere appeared, and at Madame's request began his narrative.

He had not proceeded far when the Marechale sent for Cyrene. It was the
kind of opportunity in which de Lotbiniere gloried. As soon as he
commenced she scanned him with intense attention, saying to herself,
"This is one of Germain's enemies." As he told his tale he too watched
her closely. The courage with which she listened to the development of a
story so deeply affecting her honour and her heart, and her perfect
dignity, unexpected by him, baffled him, from point to point of his
careful narration, where he had expected to produce effects.

"Of all women," he thought, "she is the strangest. Are my skill and
effort to be wasted on a girl?" But guessing correctly all at once and
rightly attributing her reticence to preparation and distrust of
himself, he stopped and said--

"He has doubtless told Madame a very different version."

"He has told me nothing of these things, sir," she answered quietly.

De Lotbiniere was nonplussed, but he had not yet come to the duels. He
now mentioned them.

"There have been two duels."

"_Mon dieu!_"

"I hope that your nephew punished him sharply," La Marechale
interrupted.

"The brute, unfortunately, has wounded my nephew, Madame."

"Is your brother-in-law, the Marquis de Repentigny, whom you mentioned,
he who killed a man named Philibert in Quebec?" now demanded Cyrene.

It was as if a thunderbolt struck de Lotbiniere.

"Who spoke to you of that?" he exclaimed hastily.

"Do you hear?" Cyrene cried excitedly, turning to La Marechale. "Do you
hear this admission of murder?"

"It was no murder!" de Lotbiniere interrupted, trembling with feeling.

"You apparently wish some finer term to describe it," she retorted.
"Sir, any charges made to me against my affianced must be supported by
individuals more free of terrible records. _I_ shall trust his innocence
through eternity." And with these words, uttered frigidly, she left the
room, the Marechale looking after her astonished.

Now Germain, having fled from Troyes, came to the hotel. He entered one
of the great salons, and, miserable and desperate, sent up his name to
Cyrene for a last interview. While he waited to be ushered up, to his
surprise, she herself appeared at the end of the salon, advancing with a
tearful expression. The sight of her, dragged down into his pit of
misery, sent him distracted. All was forgotten for a few moments, as she
tearfully clasped him in her arms and murmured--

"Germain, you are no adventurer, no Sillon. Though all the world be
against you, I shall die with you."

Intoxicated with surprise that she did not repel him, yet overcome with
the belief that it was to be their last embrace, he lost himself for the
time in mingled remorse and mad bliss. They clung to each other as so
many others have clung in those short moments which are the attar of a
lifetime. At length he grew more conscious, and the delirium of holding
that face and golden hair to his breast triumphed over the pain of
guilt. At that moment they simultaneously perceived a shadow and
started.

"Baroness," said a severe voice, "you make me blush for my house."

Cyrene and Germain sprang apart in alarm.

"_You_," Madame l'Etiquette said, addressing Germain, "have dared to
enact such a scene here. You, the apothecary's apprentice----"

"Madame," Cyrene cried, her eyes flashing, "withdraw those words! I
demand it!"

The situation aroused all his faculties.

"Madame la Marechale," said he quite coolly, "has taken, I observe, the
word of my enemies without asking for the facts. I shall not fatigue her
with arguments, as I am on my way to produce the proofs."

With two profound bows, the first to Cyrene, the other to Madame de
Noailles, he withdrew.




CHAPTER XXXII

A STRONG PROOF


Remorse in all its horror seized him with the last glance of Cyrene's
tearful eyes. He could not but feel the demand of those eyes for fine
honour in the man on whom they rested in love. She was to him the white
flower sprung of the truth and fearlessness, as well as the grace, of
long descended chivalry, and who must not be associated with anything
base. He had never before fully faced his Repentigny impersonation in
the aspect of a falsity to her. Now, after his direct lie to her,
self-contempt threatened to altogether overwhelm him.

He mechanically went on to Paris, whither Dominique had gone before to
secure his lodging. The evening of his arrival was spent in grief.

"The fault is mine, but why?" he asked himself with impatient gloom.
"Why has Providence so unfairly divided the honours and the guilt of
life? Why are there rich and poor? Why good and bad? Why should an
unfortunate like me, who has meant only well, be entangled in such a
mesh of accidents? Why were my eyes designed but to see, my breast to
love, my Cyrene, at such frightful cost?"

Next morning, the sunlight gilding the pinnacles of the Louvre, the
cries of Paris, the fascinating dash of the metropolis, brought back to
him his gift of animal spirits. Were he, he thought, but to successfully
outride his present troubles, he would accept a post which had been
offered him, as commandant of a cadet school on the far away estates of
the Duke de la Rochefoucault, and thither retire quietly with Cyrene,
away from the jealousy and criticism of the Court, and make open
confession to her.

By appointment made at Troyes he went to meet Grancey in the Palais
Royal garden.

Germain took his friend's arm and led him along the antiquated quarter
of the Marais, where he had secured a room in a quiet neighbourhood for
the old Chevalier de Lincy. His heart beat lest anything should have
occurred to arrest the old noble's illusion. His intention was to
introduce Grancey into the apartment of the old man, and there to let
him gather from the lips of the occupant words that would link Germain
with a house so ancient and respected. They arrived at the door, rang,
and demanded of the landlady whether the Chevalier was in. She looked at
them curiously as she held the door open.

"Is one of you Monsieur de Lincy's cousin!" she inquired.

"I, Madame," replied he.

"Come in, sir. Have you not received the letter posted yesterday by the
priest?"

"By the priest?" Germain stopped, with his friend, on the threshold of
the chamber into which she had led them. "Is he ill, then?"

"The saints protect him, sir, he has finished his last illness. He lies
upstairs in his beautiful mortuary chamber draped by the Sisters of the
Hospital."

"Poor old de Lincy," he murmured, yet could hardly realise it.

"Are you not Monsieur de Lincy, too, sir?" she inquired.

"Certainly," he replied quickly, checking himself, "but he was the head
of the house. Alas! let me see him."

She led them up two flights and into the death chamber, which was
heavily hung with black and the windows darkened. Two tapers at the head
and two at the feet showed where the corpse lay, and near by stood an
altar with lights and flowers, beside which two Black Nuns knelt
motionlessly. The visitors crossed the room with bowed heads and looked
down at the face of the dead. It had lost its worn look and was at
peace. A faint smile, as of proud pleasure, rested on the lips, and
Lecour knew that smile was for him. It brought him a strange emotion; he
felt as if, though condemned by so many of the living, he was loved by
the dead; and a great tenderness towards his pathetic relative welled in
his heart. He bent over the face and earnestly wept.

"He loved you, Monsieur le Chevalier," the landlady said, weeping also,
"and bade the notary leave with me a copy of his will for you. When
Monsieur descends, I shall give it to him."

"Did he talk much before he died?"

"A great deal. The confessor said there was a high fever. He talked of a
castle upon a mountain--and about you, Monsieur, a good deal. He was not
strong when he came to us: I said from the beginning 'He is on the short
way to heaven': he seemed like one who had suffered too much."

They followed her out of the chamber. Lecour could not help some
eagerness concerning the will, and perusing it closely when she handed
it to him, found it bequeathed him all the testator's possessions. He
passed the deed silently to his friend the Baron, who read the first
half and caught the drift.

"Your proof is incontestable," he said briefly.

"The difficulty is but the completion of my proofs. I have to go to
Canada for that. But assure the company of my return."

"We shall appeal in a body to the Prince."

"I pray you not."

"What can we do for you, then?"

"Thank the others. Invite all my friends in Troyes to a banquet in my
name this day week, at which you will preside for me. Spare no expense.
You shall be witness for me while I am absent in Canada."

"If to serve you is the programme, I shall live happy."

The Baron returned to Troyes and, duly presiding at the dinner given to
the Guards in Germain's name, related excitedly what he had seen.

The young men heard the story with outbursts of delight, drank Lecour's
health standing on their chairs, heaped his place with roses, sang over
and over a chorus in his honour, and parted swearing vehemently that the
dismissal of such a good fellow was a wrong to the company of Noailles
concocted as an insult to the whole of them by the rival company of
Villeroy.




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE REGISTER OF ST. GERMAIN-DES-PRES


A hazy hope concerning his descent had haunted Lecour for some months
past. That the Chevalier de Lincy was really in some manner his relative
became his belief. He argued that his own fitness for aristocratic
society must have a hereditary explanation and that, were he able to
trace his lineage a short distance backward he would discover some
higher status fallen from by his family through misfortune. On the day
of de Grancey's departure, he began to place together the straws of
information which might guide him. He had once heard his father speak of
having left France at the age of twelve years. Was he a kidnapped and
deported heir? Was he a cadet of some reduced family?

Again, on one of the rare occasions when Lecour senior referred to the
past--a winter's evening chat by the fire-side with the cure of the
parish--he had described his boyish recollection of the interior of the
Paris church of St. Germain-des-Pres, then the family church of his
family. Was his own name taken from its patron saint? Would its
registers contain records of the Lecours?

He knew at least his father's age--born in 1736, it would make him--yes,
and also his birth month, June. Here were straws to start by.

He lost no time in crossing the Seine and seeking the church. As he
passed the middle of the Pont Neuf--near the equestrian statue of Henry
IV., a small man, meanly dressed, glided out of the shadow of a vehicle,
and moved stealthily after him, his motions wary as a cat's. This man
was Jude.

Germain arrived at the edifice, which adjoined the great abbey of the
same name, and scanned its ancient spire and dilapidated facade for some
moments before he entered, full of thought--"for here," said he "is the
temple of my forefathers--the visible link that binds my origin to
France." He passed in, regarding every pillar and ornament of its
quaint, dark, Norman interior with the same fascination, and traversing
its length, came to the sacristy behind the high altar. A young priest
was standing there overlooking the operations of some workmen, and
muttering his breviary.

"Messire, I am seeking information for which I wish to examine your
parish registers," said Germain.

"It is an honour, sir," replied the priest. "What is the year?"

"1736."

"The books are here, sir," opening a cupboard in which various large
volumes leaned against each other on the shelves. "This is 1736. May I
assist you in finding the entry?"

"I am not sure what I need."

"I fear Monsieur will not find some of the entries easy reading."

"Time is not important to me, father," answered Germain cheerfully. "May
I take the register to this table near the light?"

"With pleasure; but should the handwriting be difficult, speak to me. I
am the archivist of the abbey." And thus saying he turned back to his
workmen.

Lecour examined the volume with beating heart. He nervously fingered the
leaves at first without receiving any distinct impression of the
contents, his brain was so full of other thoughts. At last he noticed
that the entries were regular and consecutive, and though written in
different hands, were clear to follow. He reached the month of June,
read its entries slowly, one after another--a birth, a marriage, a
death, then another death, then a birth again, and so on, with the names
of the parties and their parents, some high, some low, until he came to
nearly the end, when suddenly one seemed to stare at him out of the
page.

"The 27th,--Took place the baptism of Francois Xavier, tenth son of
_Pierre Lecour, master-butcher, of this Parish_, and of his wife, Marie
LeCoq. He had for godfather, Jean LeCoq, tinker, and for godmother,
Therese, wife of Louis Bossu, Charcoal vendor."

From the moment he read the word "master-butcher," his head swam, his
heart sank, he felt a blow as if it were the stunning thud of a heavy
weight upon it, and an unconscious groan escaped him.

"Monsieur is sick," exclaimed the priest to his men. "Bring wine."

"No, father," returned Germain, slowly rising, and steadying himself,
"it is nothing," and he walked forward and left the sacristy.

The room had two doors leading inward to the high altar, one on each
side. Just as Lecour passed out by the left one, Jude glided in by that
on the right, and crossing boldly to the open book, pounced upon the
entry of baptism.




CHAPTER XXXIV

AT QUEBEC


Germain was now committed to the most desperate courses to maintain his
assumed character. He left France, and by way of London, took ship for
his colony. The Canada of 1788 was a quaint community shut away out of
the great world. It consisted of a few widely separated hamlets, keeping
in touch with each other by means of a long road on each shore of the
St. Lawrence, and having as chief cities the two tiny walled towns of
Quebec and Montreal. It possessed a population of perhaps a hundred and
fifty thousand souls, all French except a couple of British regiments,
and a handful of officials and tradesmen. Some bodies of refugee
Loyalists of the American Revolution had recently also come in. The
driblet of population thus strung scantily along the banks of the vast
river seemed as nothing in the mighty forest by which it was surrounded.
The country therefore had in great part the virgin look of the primeval
solitude.

After an eight weeks' stormy voyage in the London barque _Chatham_,
Germain cast his eyes with relief on the tawny, lion-like rock of
Quebec, with the fortress above and the little town about its feet, and
straggling up its sides. The vessel at length drew up to moorings, the
anchor dropped, and a boat came out for the passengers. He disembarked
with his boxes, and inquired for a good lodging in the Upper Town. A
_caleche_-driver undertook to find him one, and leaving the heavier
luggage with a merchant near by, lashed his brisk little horse with the
ends of the reins, and inspired it into a cat-like climb by which Lecour
was whisked up the precipitous windy street called Mountain Hill, from
the busy Lower to the aristocratic and military Upper Town.

After some searching they found a certain Madame Langlois, a widow who
lived in a comfortable house on St. Louis Street, and could give the
gentleman a front room on her first floor. There he could see the
principal doings of the town, for it was not far from the Place d'Armes
and the Castle. It suited him and he installed himself. As it was late
in the afternoon, he occupied the time by unpacking his effects until
called to supper by Madame Langlois. At the meal, he noted that his
landlady--a thin, civil woman of thirty-eight or so, was simply dying of
discreet curiosity. He vouchsafed her only his name, and that he was
just arrived from France. He, however, asked a number of questions about
the Castle, the Governor, his staff, and the prominent people of the
town, and inflamed her interest as much by his questions as by his dress
and manners. Then retiring till dusk fell, he went out and wandered
about the neighbourhood.

The rock of Quebec is like a lion couchant beside the St. Lawrence. On
the head is the fortress, on the back the Upper Town, around the feet
nestles the Lower Town, while the River St. Charles flows around the
hinder parts.

The city was no vast place: its population was but some seven thousand
souls, with about two thousand of a garrison, and the occupied area in
the Upper Town covered a few streets only, the remainder consisting of
grassy fields stretching to the fortification walls. The citadel,
picturesquely crowning the summit of the rock, stood several hundred
yards higher, at one side. The Castle of St. Louis, the main ornament of
the place next to the cathedral, overlooked the cliff, resting on a
series of tall buttresses ribbing the side of the precipice.

At every point along the "lion's back," or upper edge of the cliff,
where Germain was, a magnificent view greeted him. He stopped to enjoy
it. The harbour lay glimmering far below in the moonbeams, across it the
heights of Levis stretched along the weird landscape. The lighted
windows of the Lower Town, of which he could see little more than the
shimmering dark roofs, shone up obliquely. All was domed over by a
dark-blue sky in which the harvest moon rode.

He walked back from the cliff along the Rue St. Louis to the city wall,
and returned by the Rue Buade. In doing so he scanned the fortifications
with military interest, and returning, remarked the dark, low pile of
the convent of the Jesuits, and also the cathedral and the seminary
adjoining. He remembered once hearing his father say this cathedral of
Quebec had been designed by one of the de Lerys. From the place in front
of it he could make out dimly, down the <DW72> of Ste. Famille Street
close by, the de Lery mansion itself.

"The father and mother will be there," he cogitated. "They will have had
letters about me from France by this time."

He turned again along Buade Street, and continued his stroll with an
object, for at the point where the sharp descent towards the Lower Town
began he brought up before a stately house of stone, of an antique
architecture, on the face of which, over the door, something
indistinctly glittered. It was the house of the Golden Dog; and as he
surveyed it and tried vainly to read the letters of the inscription,
his shadowy visitor at Troyes once more arose vividly before his
imagination, and the terrible scene of Philibert's murder seemed to be
enacted again upon the flight of steps before the door. Absorbed in the
gruesome story with which he was so strangely connected, he returned to
his chamber, and retired.

Twice he heard the tramp of a change of guards passing along the street.
Once a convent bell rang, perhaps for some midnight burial.

The next day at breakfast he learned from his hostess that the presence
of the strange gentleman lodging with her had been remarked by several
young women, and that it was already the gossip of the Upper Town. In
the course of her stream of news she mentioned Monsieur de Lery. The
hand with which he was about to lift his cup to his lips stopped, and he
casually asked--

"Who is _he_?"

"The Honourable Monsieur de Lery," she exclaimed. "I thought he was
known to all the world. He is the senior in the Governor's council, and
his lady is the best customer of my brother-in-law's shop. The old
Chevalier de Lery never did a wrong to any one, and if he is a little
stiff, he still walks the straightest man in the town of Quebec."

Lecour withdrew to his chamber, and opened a miniature portmanteau
covered with purple leather and stamped in gold with the de Lincy arms.
He drew out a parchment, which he placed on the table. Then, taking from
his clothes-box the uniform of his lieutenancy in the Bodyguard--which
he had been so expressly forbidden to wear--he dressed himself before
the glass with the greatest care, and having finished, put on his sword,
placed the parchment in his bosom, took up his hat, and went forth with
his ordinary air of ease and command. Passing along the street and
across the Place d'Armes--at the insignificance of which, comparing it
with that of Versailles, he laughed almost aloud--he entered the gate of
the Castle.

The tow-headed Briton who was performing sentry duty at the gate, though
he challenged him like an automaton, was astonished at the sight of a
uniform, the like of which, in style, brilliancy, and ornaments, he had
never before seen.

"Be blowed to me, Bill," he soon afterwards remarked to a comrade of the
guard-room, "if I didn't take 'im fer ole General Montcalm come back
from blazes; 'e looked so grand an' Frenchy-like, an' come on me so
sudden."

The Governor's _aide-de-camp_, de la Naudiere, a dashing Canadian
officer, was almost as surprised at the sight of Lecour's uniform as the
sentry, and receiving him with profound deference, read the passport
which the new arrival handed him. He was not aware how closely the eyes
of Germain watched his face. At the name "LeCour de Lincy, Esquire," in
the paper he gave a slight start, but by the time he came to the end his
manner recovered itself, and he greeted him cordially.

"The French army, Monsieur, never lacks honour in the Province of
Quebec. You bear a uniform and a rank which commend you to our best
hospitalities. Will you permit me to share my good fortune in meeting
you with our Governor, Lord Dorchester?"

"I have heard of Lord Dorchester," replied Germain, "how gallant a man
he is, and how true a friend to our nation."

"Nothing is truer, sir; every Canadian will tell you he is the soul of
kindness and sympathy with us, and that he has quite withdrawn the sting
of our being a conquered people. Here I am, a Catholic and a Canadian,
yet as well pleased as if I were in the service of France. His
friendship with our gentry is like the relation of a veritable father
to his family."

"Were not his services very great in the American Revolution? I have
heard General Lafayette speak highly of his name."

"Yes, Monsieur; his services preserved this Province from the enemy, and
we have named him 'the Saviour of Canada.' Pardon me a moment to
announce you."

While waiting to be summoned to the Governor, Lecour glanced around. The
part of the buildings in which he stood was the Old Chateau, a
picturesque structure of the French times, dating from 1694, crowning
its conspicuous position as a landmark by a mediaeval roof of steep
pitch; while a gallery two hundred feet in length ran along the outside,
supported by tall buttresses, which, clinging to the cliff-side, gave it
beneath the same elongated lines as the steep roof above. The result was
exceedingly quaint and castellated. He remembered that he had often seen
it thus from the river. His present point of view gave him, through the
windows and over the gallery, another form of his view of the harbour
and Point Levis, one of the most striking landscapes in the world.
Looking closer about the room, the low-raftered ceilings of an older
time brought another thought to his mind.

"Is not this," he exclaimed to himself, "the very chamber where Count
Frontenac, a hundred years ago, must have received the envoy of Admiral
Phipps with request to surrender, and returned the reply, 'I will answer
your master by the mouth of my cannon.'" He imagined he heard the
gallant veteran say the words.

Turning to the windows towards the courtyard, he saw opposite the
handsome new range of buildings lately erected, and nicknamed "Castle
Haldimand," in which were the apartments of the Governor and his family,
and which, on their further side, fronted on the Place d'Armes.

As a boy he had once looked into the courtyard, and contemplated its
precincts with juvenile awe. Now, he was standing a guest of honour in
the then inaccessible arcana. He was not given much time to continue his
reflections. De la Naudiere came back, brought him across, and conducted
him into the reception chamber of Governor Dorchester. His Excellency,
who was a large, finely-made man of a ruddy and generous countenance,
received him with that trained, lofty courtesy which marked the meeting
of distinguished men of that time, and Lecour, as he reciprocated the
salutation, saw that he had nothing to fear from him.

"I recognise your uniform, Chevalier," said he, "which revives to me
some pleasant memories of Versailles."

"Your Lordship is, then, acquainted with my Sovereign's Court? His
Majesty knows how to appreciate a brave man."

"He has too many in his service to do otherwise; but I have no
pretensions on that score."

"The world well knows, your Excellency, 'The Saviour of Canada,'" Lecour
replied, "and my country honours you as one of the worthiest of former
foes."

"Tut, tut, Monsieur le Chevalier--excuse the freedom of an old
Englishman in turning the conversation. My lady will die of curiosity
over the appearance of a Garde-du-Corps in this out-of-the-way quarter
of the globe. How can I answer her as to the cause?"

"Private business with my family, my Lord, connected with an estate in
our mother country."

"Ah, your people are Canadians?"

"My father is generally known as the Merchant Lecour of St Elphege. His
full name is LeCour de Lincy."

"That is the name on your passport," interrupted de la Naudiere. "I
never knew he was a noble."

"He has never boasted of it," returned Lecour.

"An honest old fellow," Dorchester commented. Then, remembering himself,
added, "You will, of course, do us the honour while in Quebec of being a
guest at the Castle?"

"Your Lordship's invitation is a command, but I am here for a few hours
only."

"Let us enjoy these hours then; eh, la Naudiere? See that Mr. de Lincy's
luggage is brought to the Castle."

"We review the garrison, in a few minutes," continued Dorchester, "then
we luncheon. After that we are to drive to the Montmorenci Falls."

A beautiful and haughty-looking woman of over forty years entered the
room. She stopped when she saw Lecour, but concealing her surprise at
his uniform, stood graciously while her husband--for she was the
Governor's wife--turned and said--

"Lady Dorchester, allow me to present the Chevalier de Lincy, whom we
have just acquired as our guest, and whom you will recognise as a
Garde-du-Corps of the King of France."

"The Milady Dorchester," as she was called among the people, was of the
famous line of the Howards, daughter of that Earl of Effingham who
refused in 1776 to draw his sword against the liberties of his
fellow-subjects in America.

At her table many a scathing dissertation on the nobodiness of nobodies
had been given the youthful gentry of the Province, a fact not unknown
to Germain. De la Naudiere himself had experienced her sharpness when he
was first introduced at her table. On that occasion in carving a joint
he had the misfortune to spill some gravy on the cloth. "Young man,"
cried Milady, "where were you brought up?" "At my father's table, where
they change the cloth three times a day," he quickly retorted, and
captured her favour.

A Garde-du-Corps, however, was sacred from reproach. To have with them
for the day an inner member of the Court of France, fresh from
delightful Paris, and from still more delightful Versailles, was really
more than an exiled lady of fashion in her position could just then have
dreamt. How he acquitted himself in her coach at the review and during
the beautiful afternoon drive to the Falls, how he kept the table
smiling at dinner, and of their walk in the Castle garden, with its low
cannon-embrasured wall along the cuff, it would scarcely profit the
reader to hear, except in one particular.

On the shady lawn at Montmorenci--a name which thrilled him with sweet
associations--he stood in the midst of the picnic party and sang them
one of the current songs of the Bodyguard:--

    "Yes, I am a soldier--I,
    And for my country live--
    For my Queen and for my King
    My life I'll freely give.

    When the insolent demagogue
    Loud rants at this and that,
    Not less do I go singing round,
    'Vive an aristocrat!'
        Yes, &c.

    To the Devil, Equality!
    Your squalor I decline,
    With you I would no better be
    Nor sprung of older line.
        Yes, &c.

    March on, my comrades gay,
    Strike up the merry drums,
    And drink the Bourbons long, long life
    Whatever fortune comes.
        Yes, &c."

Next morning her Excellency rose early to see him start upon his journey
up the river.

One result followed, of which he did not know. La Naudiere described his
visit to the de Lerys in connection with the account received by them
from Chalons. They again read over the paragraph and discussed it, and
de la Naudiere pronounced decidedly that the man could not be the
same--the passport of the present individual did not bear the name of
Repentigny, and he was too perfect a gentleman.




CHAPTER XXXV

AT ST. ELPHEGE


All afternoon of the day of his arrival at St. Elphege, lofty clouds had
been moving in threatening masses across the sky. When the Lecours were
rejoicing together at supper, a storm came on, producing a raw, wet
evening, which was not unwelcome to the reunited family, for it kept
them undisturbed.

Old Lecour, to denote his satisfaction at his son's return, brought
forth his fiddle and played some of the merry airs of the Province, an
action which touched Germain's heart.

"Is this the noble," exclaimed he to himself, as he looked, with a heart
full of affection, at the roughly-dressed, homely figure, "whom I would
produce to the Noailles, the Montmorencys and the Vaudreuils, as my
father? Perhaps not; but I would offer him before sounder judges as
their superior." But notwithstanding his goodwill, there is a limit
where content is impossible in such things.

The Versailles _elegant_ could not but see in everything about him an
inevitable contrast with his late life. He felt unable to re-accustom
himself to the low-ceiled chambers, the rude appliances, the rough
dress, the country manners, the accent and phrases of his
family--things in respect of which he had at one time believed them
quite superior. Whole-heartedly concealing his impressions and his
dejection, however, he made himself as pleasant as possible. Madame had
thrown open her parlour, a rare occurrence.

When the rain began to beat against the windows, the old man called in
the Indian dwarf, and with his assistance made a fire of logs which
crackled merrily in the fireplace and threw cheerful, light and warmth
upon the circle.

Madame lit her precious sconces of wax tapers for the first time since
her daughter's wedding, and all drew closer to listen to the accounts
which came from the lips of the long-absent son. The father put his
violin aside, seated himself in his tall-backed arm-chair and gazed
alternately into the fire and at his son's face. The mother hung upon
her favourite's words and movements as mothers ever will. The convent
girl, his youngest sister, worshipped him with eyes and ears--to her he
was the hero of her family, whom she could measure in the lists against
the vaunted brothers of her proud Quebec school-mates, Lanaudieres,
Bleurys, la Gorgendieres, Tonnancours and those others, who, familiar
with the doings of the Castle, looked down upon the trader's daughter.

"What about this new name?" said the mother at length; "they have given
you a title in France?"

"Not at all, mother," he replied.

"But they call you 'Monsieur de Lincy,' you say."

"It is not a new name; it is the real one of the family--you are
entitled to it as well as I."

"What does that mean, son Germain? Have we been ignorant of our own
name?"

"It means that we are gentlepeople--and that in my father there, you
behold the real or principal Chevalier de Lincy. I am but the younger
Chevalier."

The family, at this announcement, gave voice to a mutual cry. The father
looked up and said soberly--

"You mistake, my son."

"In no respect, dear father. I have learnt our descent in France, and am
glad to inform you that you are what you deserve to be--a noble."

"There, Francois Xavier!" exclaimed the wife. "You are not going to deny
it."

"Many good stocks forget their origin in going out to the colonies,"
added Germain. "You, sir, crossed the sea at a very early age."

"At twelve years old," asserted the merchant.

"You were too young to make those inquiries which I have completed. You
knew little of your parents."

"My father was a butcher of Paris; I know that."

"That is an error, sir. Those you regarded as your parents were but
foster-parents, though they bore the same name."

"Who, then, do you pretend was my father?" cried the merchant in
amazement. "There was no question of that matter before I left France."

"Because your mother had died, and your father, who was a poor man,
though a gentleman, had departed for service in the East Indies, and
there was heard of no more."

"In any event I do not care about these things. I shall always remain
the Merchant Lecour," the old man said, with steady-going pride.

"But Francois Xavier!" cried his wife. "Have you no care about your
children and me? Is it nothing to us if we are _noblesse_? Will you be
forever turning over skins and measuring groceries when you ought to
have a grand house and a grand office, like the gentry of the North-West
Company at Montreal, who dine with the Governor, and are yet no better
off than you? I am sure _they_ are no Chevaliers de Lincy".

"I cannot believe it, wife. I know where I came from, and that I was
nothing but a boy sent out with the troops by the magistrates of
Paris"--Germain started--"then a poor private, and by good conduct at
length a _cantineer_ of the liquor. Chevaliers are not of those grades,
as I well enough know, and I never heard of any good from a man getting
out of his place."

The convent girl looked up in suspense at her hero for reply.

"Listen, father," exclaimed Germain with a kind of gaiety, appreciating
the melancholy humour of the situation, "I have not only traced you up,
but shall show you the evidence. Carry in my little box while I bring
the black one."

They brought the boxes in, and the small one--that with the gilt coat of
arms, from which Germain had taken his passport at Quebec--was put on
the table. Germain unlocked it, and brought out the de Lincy
genealogical tree.

"Here," said he to his father, while the family crowded to look over
their shoulders, "you are the son of this one; I have seen and read your
baptismal register which records it, in the Church of St.
Germain-des-Pres."

"True--that was my parish," the old man answered. "Are you certain that
my father was not----?"

"Positive."

"Very well, then," old Lecour answered, somewhat reluctantly.

"What a romance!" the married daughter cried.

"I am about to show you some precious relics of our past," Germain
continued. "See what a store of parchments. Here are grants of
_noblesse_ from the King, grants of titles, dispensations signed by the
Popes--do you know what these are?" he cried, taking out and putting on
his breast a couple of beautiful jewels, standing up as he did so.

"Tell us!"

"This," said he, "is the Commander's Cross of St. Louis; and that the
Order of the Holy Ghost."

While they pushed forward in excitement to look closer at the
decorations, he bent, lifted the lid of the large black box and with
both hands raised before them an oil portrait of a gentleman in full
wig, velvet coat and ruffles.

"That," said he, surveying it with becoming pride, "is our ancestor
Hypolite LeCour de Lincy. Sir," said he, laughingly turning to his
parent, "behold your father against your will."

"Bravo, Monsieur my son," cried Madame Lecour.

"Now I can make my old man dress like a gentleman. The next time I go to
Montreal, Lecour--or rather my Chevalier--I shall spend some of your
money on a peruke and a scarlet coat for you."

"Holy Mary, save me!"

"About that please the ladies, father," Germain put in; "but there is
another matter. Who drew your marriage contract?"

"D'Aguilhe, the notary," his mother returned.

"Is he of St. Elphege?"

"Yes."

"He has, of course, omitted mention of your nobility."

"He knew of none," said the merchant.

"Then we must go to him with our titles, and he must rectify it
to-morrow."

"As you please, if it will suit you better," the merchant murmured.

"I must be a Prince, for I create nobles," pronounced Germain, shaking
with fevered laughter, as he drew the sheets over him in the state bed
that night. His merriment was a pitiful cover for his desperation. In
his favour it is well to remember the dictum of Schopenhauer: that the
English are the only nation who thoroughly realise the immorality of
lying; and we must also keep in mind that the extent of his disorder was
a measure of the power of that passion which was its cause. Better
things were yet in him.




CHAPTER XXXVI

AT MONTREAL


Next morning, after old Lecour had, with a heart full of content, and a
pipeful of tobacco, taken his son the round of his warehouses and
granaries, his piles of furs, his mountains of wheat, and the rising
vaults of what was to be his newest and greatest building, they set off
down the village street to the Notary's house.

D'Aguilhe was of a famous breed of notaries, who had driven the quill
and handed it down from father to son from the earliest days of the
colony. When Lecour discovered that he was founding St. Elphege, one of
the first things he did was to jolt up to Montreal, and catch a young
scion of this race of d'Aguilhes, and here he had kept him making a
comfortable living at his profession ever since. It was therefore not
improper that the man of the _paraphe_--and a wondrous _paraphe_ his
signature had, flourishing from edge to edge of a foolscap page, in
woolly and laborious curves--should, when called upon next morning,
treat his best client to his best office manners.

"Monsieur d'Aguilhe," commenced old Lecour, "here is my son, who thinks
me a noble--and upon my honour I cannot argue against him; he is too
able for me."

"Aha!" returned d'Aguilhe, pricking up his ears, and saying to himself,
"This looks like something important."

"We desire," said Germain, taking the business into his own hands, "to
see the marriage contract of my father and mother."

"Certainly, Monsieur Germain," he answered, and going to his cupboards,
took his package of deeds for the year 1765, picked out the document and
handed it to Germain, who read a few lines at the beginning.

"I see," the latter said, "that my father is improperly described here,
as you will observe by these documents I now place before you. He is
entitled to be called in this contract 'Francois Xavier LeCour,
Chevalier de Lincy.'"

"A--ah!" exclaimed again the Notary, solemnly, raising his eyebrows and
poking over Germain's parchments.

"Are they not correct?" asked Germain.

"Without a doubt."

"Is not my father the Chevalier de Lincy?"

"It seems so."

"Then we have only to ask, as it is a family matter, that you add this
name to the contract of marriage, and give us a copy."

"It cannot be done, sir."

Germain felt a check. He was silent.

"Do not say that, d'Aguilhe," the merchant said; "if the boy wants it,
let him have it. What do I care?"

"No sir, it cannot be done."

"Cannot be done? for _me_? Have I done nothing for you, M. d'Aguilhe?
Have I not been a good client to you?"

"Nevertheless, sir, nothing can weigh with me against the rules of my
profession," pompously replied the Notary. "A Public Person must not
allow himself to be swayed by private considerations."

"In what lies your difficulty in changing this deed?" Germain asked.

"A deed once deposited in the archives of the Notary is sacred."

"But you see a mistake has been made?"

"Etiquette, Monsieur."

"You see that the honour of the family is concerned in rectifying that
mistake."

"Etiquette, Monsieur."

"But is there no way? If I offer fifty livres for your advice upon a
way, for instance?"

"Ah, Monsieur, that is different; the heart of the professional man
should open, and his knowledge be accessible to his client. There is a
way."

"What is it?"

"Obtain an order of the Judge upon me to add the required paragraphs to
my deed."

"Here are your fifty livres."

"I thank you, sir," and, so saying, d'Aguilhe put his quill behind his
ear and showed them politely to the door.

Germain and his father--the father arrayed by Madame in his best black
coat--set, therefore, off for Montreal. They crossed the ferry near
Repentigny church, and drove through open country along the riverside
till, as evening drew on, they came in sight of the walls, the citadel
hill, the enchanting suburban estates and green Mount Royal in the
background, which denoted the city.

They drew up in the court of a bustling inn, stabled their horse, went
to bed, and the next morning sought the house of a celebrated advocate,
the great Rottot. The great Rottot was chiefly known for his imposing
proportions, and no sight was thought so beautiful by the _habitants_ as
that of his black silk leg, as, with his robe fluttering out in the
breezes, he seemed to be flying from his office across the street to the
court-house, followed by a bevy of clients.

He listened, standing, to the respectful request of Lecour, helped out
in his explanations by Germain, who desired to have the pleader obtain
for them the requisite order of the Judge.

"Ah," said he, "I see, gentlemen, you do not appreciate the importance
of your case. Such a matter ought to be made the subject of the
profoundest studies, and we should at length approach the Legislature
itself with a petition and demand the passage of a private bill. The
affair tempts my powers."

"But we have no special wish for publicity."

"Gentlemen, you know not what would be your good fortune. It would make
you the talk of the Province. _In re Lecour_ would be a great
precedent."

"Such is not our desire."

"What! not to establish a precedent?"

"No, Mr. Advocate," Germain said firmly; "a simple petition to obtain
this order is what we want. We must have it, and quickly, and nothing
more."

"Ah, then, this is what you want," said he. "I will draw it for you,"
and, sitting down, he wrote out a document as follows:--

     "To the Honourable Judges of the Court of Common Pleas of the
     District of Montreal:

     "The petition of Francois Xavier LeCour de Lincy, Esquire, residing
     at St. Elphege, respectfully shews:--That when he contracted
     marriage with Mademoiselle Lanier, he knew not that he was of noble
     origin, having left Europe at a very early age with scarcely any
     knowledge of his family; that since then he has learned of his
     extraction and obtained his titles of _noblesse_ which he now
     presents to your Honours in evidence.

     "Wherefore may it please your Honours to grant an order upon
     Maitre d'Aguilhe, Notary, of St. Elphege, to add to the minute of
     his contract of marriage the name and title of 'de Lincy, Esquire';
     and you will do justice."

"Sign, sir, please."

Francois Xavier attached his signature.

"It will do," Rottot sighed; "but I should have preferred the
precedent."

They crossed the road and entered the court-room.

A rubicund, easy-going old judge, Fraser by name, sat on the bench, the
royal arms painted large in oils on a canvas behind him. In front were a
lawyer or two and a few clients--a slack court. Rottot, with a flourish,
read the petition.

The judge smiled. "Only a _habitant_ from the country," he mused,
good-humouredly, "who wants to add some mouldy flourishes to his name.
Well, if it pleases him, let him have them. Does anybody oppose the
petition?" he said aloud. "No? Well, it is granted. Hand it up for my
signature."

The astute Rottot had added the words--"Granted as prayed for, as well
as to all other deeds and writings."

This gave Germain great satisfaction. With the precious order in his
pocket he spent a few hours reconnoitring the town, and especially the
headquarters of the garrison and the Governor's residence, the Chateau
de Ramezay.

Returning to St. Elphege, he presented the order of the Court at once to
Maitre d'Aguilhe, and obtained a copy of the amended marriage contract,
which he stored in his box as proof for use in France of the titles of
his father in Canada.

While in Montreal he had determined to make that place also useful to
him. So, after a decent delay, he found lodging at an elegant little
house which suited him in St. Jean Baptiste Street, secluded behind
the great Convent of the Grey Nuns and yet not far away from garrison
headquarters.

[Illustration: Germain Lecour at the House in St. Jean Baptiste Street.]

His first act when he was left alone in his room was to don his uniform,
his next to take out of his pocket the certified copy of the marriage
contract of his parents which had been made for him by the Notary
d'Aguilhe. He conned it a minute, standing by the Louis XIV. mantel,
which may still be seen in that house, and sought but his mother's name.
"Dame Catherine Lanier," it read. He drew out his little inkstand and
quill, and, seizing a scrap of paper, tried some marks on it. Finding
the ink to his satisfaction, he carefully touched the point of the quill
to the contract and rapidly inserted the particle "de," making the name
"Catherine de Lanier."

Rushing out of the house--it was afternoon--he sought relief in the open
air and garden-like freshness of Notre Dame Street, a thoroughfare up to
which the serried buildings of the "Lower Town"--for Montreal also had a
Lower and Upper Town, even within its contracted width--had not yet
crept, and which, situated on the top of the long, low ridge of the
city, commanded free views of the river, the town, and all the prominent
landmarks on one side, and of the fortification walls and the beautiful
country seats on the <DW72>s towards Mount Royal on the other. At first
he noticed these alone, but gradually the wind from the west cooled his
blood, and his eyes became conscious of military men and frilled and
powdered people of fashion promenading the street to and from the
barracks, and of his uniform becoming, as at Quebec, a subject of public
curiosity. He stopped at length to note a prisoner in the town pillory,
when a promenader of somewhat frayed attire and a countenance which bore
marks of dissipation looked at him closely.

"I know your face very well," said he, coming forward, "though I cannot
recall you. Do you remember any one of the name of Quinson St. Ours?"

"Quinson St. Ours? I should think I do. Are you my old schoolfellow of
the Little Seminary?"

"Yes, it was at the Little Seminary--I have not been wrong then--but it
is your name, my good schoolfellow, which escapes me; and now you look
so distinguished that I hope you are not going to forget a schoolmate on
that account?"

"Never, sir. My name is the Chevalier LeCour de Lincy, officer of the
Guards of His Most Christian Majesty. I am the boy whom you knew as the
little Lecour of St. Elphege."

The somewhat humble and seedy Quinson, black sheep of an excellent
family, was glad to brighten up his tarnished career as the cicerone of
so brilliant a butterfly, and only too proud to be the means of
introducing Germain to the young bloods of the city. At the end of the
week, when departing, Lecour gave a banquet, to which he invited all the
choicest spirits, and having brought the feast well on into the drinking
he said, casually--

"I am about, gentlemen, to go from here into the American colonies
before I return to Europe and have a letter drawn which is necessary to
identify me, when requisite, in places where I shall be totally unknown.
Will you all do me the favour of signing it?"

"By Pollux and Castor we will!" shouted St. Ours, decidedly vinous.

"Certainly, friend," cried the others, and each in turn affixed his
signature to the paper laid on the table. It read--

     "MONTREAL, _September 19, 1788_.

     "We, gentlemen of Montreal, voluntarily attest to whomsoever it
     may concern that Mons. Germain LeCour de Lincy is a gentleman of
     good character and standing in Canada, and son of Monsieur Francois
     Xavier LeCour de Lincy, _Esquire_, an honourable person of St.
     Elphege.

(Signed)  "QUINSON DE ST. OURS,
          "LONGUEUIL,
          "DE ROUVILLE, _fils_,
          "ST. DIZIER,
          "LOUVIGNY DE MONTIGNY,
          "LA CORNE, _fils_,"

     and over thirty others.

In this paper Germain had secured the apparent attestation of his claims
by many of the principal younger _noblesse_ of the country. He made off
with it to St. Elphege, where he spent a week, drawing from his mother a
crowd of tales about the de Lerys and the LeGardeurs, which had been
gossiped around her when she was housekeeper to Governor de Beauharnois.
Then, under excuse of pressing business in France, he left St. Elphege
again.




CHAPTER XXXVII

ONCE MORE THE SWORD


The widow Langlois was surprised to see her lodger return so soon to
Quebec. He saw quickly that she was dying of curiosity, and concluded
that he and his affairs had been the subject of town gossip since his
departure. He therefore contrived to give her an occasion to talk to
him.

"There are certain malicious stories going about," she said to him
tentatively, "which I have been thinking very ungracious on the part of
our people."

"Ah, yes, Quebec is always the same little hole. Do these stories relate
to me?"

"I admit it with shame, Monsieur, and our Quebec, as you say, is a
little hole. Quebec people have nothing to talk about but the
strangers."

"What can they invent about _me_? Have I scandalised your house or
ill-conducted myself at the Castle? God's-death! you promise me
entertainment. It will make this dull village amusing to hear the
product of their gigantic imaginations. Begin, I entreat you."

"Some say you are not a Bodyguard, sir."

"Ha, that is news; I shall have to tell that to Lady Dorchester. These
good judges know so much more of the Court of France than she does. What
else?"

"It is alleged that you are no noble, your father being the Merchant of
St. Elphege."

"Yes? My father's parchment titles would answer that. I will take the
occasion later on to show them to you."

"And that you carried in France the name of the Marquis de Repentigny."

"Who is the author of these tales, if you know him?" he said with
dignity. "What source first spread them among the people, for such
things have always an instigator?"

"I would prefer not to tell, Monsieur."

However, by a little flattery he won the point. She told him how her
brother-in-law, the Merchant Langlois, of Mountain Hill, had heard at
his own shop, from Madame de Lery herself, that a letter had been
received from Paris relating the doings of a young Canadian calling
himself de Repentigny, but who was identified by two other Canadians as
young Lecour of St. Elphege, and afterwards how he had fought with Louis
de Lery, of the Bodyguard, and nearly killed him, and had departed for
Canada in disgrace.

"And it is most maliciously reported," added Madame Langlois, "that you,
sir, are without doubt the person in question."

"Madame," exclaimed he, rising abruptly, as cold as an icicle, "I shall
see to this immediately."

The widow was frightened.

"I entreat you say nothing of this to Madame de Lery," she cried in
distress.

"On that point you have the word of honour of a French officer," he
replied.

As he hastily dressed himself he muttered, "Something radical now."

He went, without delaying, to the de Lery mansion and was admitted face
to face with the Councillor.

The house was a long, low, old-fashioned one, covered externally with
dark blue mortar in French provincial style, and internally presenting
every appearance of hospitality and comfort. The parlours in which
Germain was shown into the presence of the owner were hung about with
mellowed tapestry, and their doors and windows were open, leading out
upon a gallery and thence into a luxuriant garden. The old Councillor, a
fine-looking man, frank, hospitable, and perfectly bred, welcomed
Germain with a kindly manner just tinged with a shade of curiosity, and
awaited mention of his business.

Lecour lost no time in coming to the point, stating the story that had
been circulated about him and that report attributed it to the de Lerys.

"Nor is it, sir," concluded he, "the first time I have had in such
matters to complain of your family, for I have been given great trouble
in the Bodyguard by the reckless allegations of your son Louis, who was
unknown to me, but who circulated, of his own accord, the most injurious
accusations. Among other things he has stated that I was not noble,
because of my father being the Merchant of St. Elphege. Yet you knew
very well, sir, that my father is not a petty trader, and I have brought
here to-day documents by which I am ready to prove to you beyond
question that we are of good descent."

"I regret," the Councillor answered, much disturbed, "that there have
been such unfortunate occurrences as you say. I am sure that from your
appearance and frankness in thus coming to me, there must be some
mistake. My son Louis is a man of strict honour; he must have acted on
hasty information. To do you entire justice, I shall make it my duty to
look over these documents, which are doubtless entirely correct, and
will then do the best in my power to rectify this injury so painful and
regrettable. A moment, sir."

He went to the gallery and called out--

"Panet."

"Coming," a hearty voice returned from the garden.

"It is my friend the Judge," remarked the Councillor, returning to the
room; "he will serve you as an excellent witness of the evidence you are
producing."

"Upon my word, your grapes this year are divine," exclaimed the Judge
entering, holding up a large bunch in his hand. He stopped and bowed to
Germain.

"Monsieur LeCour de Lincy here has some papers to show us," de Lery
proceeded, "which refute that unfortunate report arising from the
letters of my son."

Lecour produced his papers, and on perusal of them for some time, both
Panet and de Lery pronounced them perfect.

"I owe you the sincerest formal apology, Monsieur de Lincy," de Lery
said.

"More than that, sir," Germain returned stiffly. "You minimise the
damage done. A written retraction is due me, to exhibit in those
quarters where I have been so deeply injured, and without which I can
never wholly regain my reputation."

"Not demurring, sir, I freely admit that we owe you this reparation. If
you will draw up and send me what will be useful to you, I shall gladly
sign it."

"Stop, gentlemen, let me say a word," Judge Panet interposed. "Such a
writing being so delicate a matter, to be just to both parties, ought to
be drawn by a third. I think I am in a position to do this; will you
leave the matter to me?"

"I am the person who was injured, and the only one who knows what will
effectively right me," Lecour answered;

"He is correct," said de Lery.

Panet did not push the point further but turned away, and the Chevalier
showed the young man out of the house.

By noon, the following letter was received to sign--

     "AT QUEBEC, _the 2nd October, 1788_.

     "MONSIEUR,--It is with much pleasure that I consent to grant you
     the satisfaction you ask. I hereby confess that I have been wrong
     in spreading the report that you have taken another name than that
     of your family. I retract it publicly and I assure you in that
     respect with the greatest frankness that I am fully convinced that
     the story which led me to commit this indiscretion is absolutely
     false and unworthy of you. I make you this reparation as being due
     to your character, and I am sincerely mortified about the
     misunderstanding which has caused you so much trouble.

     "And I have the honour to be, sir, "Yours, etc.

     "To M. LeCour de Lincy, officer of the Bodyguard of the company of
     Noailles."

The old Councillor, one of the most respected men in the colony, grew
red with shame.

"It is impossible for me, as a man of honour, to sign such a paper," he
said to himself. After walking up and down in his parlours, therefore,
he wrote a reply.

The story of the Chevalier's life will help us to understand him in the
matter.

He had, in his youth, under the French _regime_, won distinction as a
Canadian officer by many important services, and was entitled by written
promises of the Government of France, to money rewards alone of nearly
a hundred thousand livres. On the fall of the colony, however, when the
Canadian officers proceeded to the home country, they found a cold
shoulder turned upon them in the departments of Versailles, so ready to
waste immense sums for those in power and to ignore the barest dues of
merit. Among the rest, de Lery, his bosom burning with the distress of
his family in Paris, paced the corridors of the Colonial Office for
nearly two years. Monsieur Accaron, the cold and procrastinative
ex-Jesuit deputy of the First Minister, would reply--

"I agree with you, sir, that these services are very distinguished;
still, Canada being no longer ours, it is to be admitted they have all
been useless."

"Monsieur," the soldier would return, "I have never understood that the
misfortunes of the brave lessen their rights."

"Well, well, if you will but wait----"

"I shall be enchanted to wait, and I beg of you to inform me of the
means of doing so. I have in Paris my wife and four children, and the
twenty louis to which his Majesty has reduced my allowance would not
support us in the most favoured province of France."

After making such fruitless attempts, he said boldly to them one day--

"I will return to Canada and try my fortune under a different Crown."

"Do not so easily abandon hope," remarked Accaron coolly.

De Lery, for reply, went to the British Ambassador, told him he had
heard high reports of the British nation and offered to become a subject
of the English King. In due time a man of so much sense and spirit was
received by George III. with satisfaction, as the first of the Canadian
gentry to enter his service, and as the Chevalier carried out his new
allegiance with the strictest sincerity, time only added to his esteem
and he became the favourite Councillor of Governor Dorchester.

The same principles of honour, dignity, and good sense marked his
feeling in the present difficulty with young Lecour. The reply ran: that
the terms of the proposed letter were a surprise to him, that he was
anxious to serve his young friend and especially to place in his hands
the means of rectifying any injury done to him by unfortunate remarks or
rumours, but that it was impossible to grant the letter requested, and
he offered the following substitute:--

     "AT QUEBEC, _the 3rd October, 1788_.

     "MONSIEUR,--It is with great pleasure that I consent to testify in
     your favour against the injurious rumours concerning you which some
     persons have assumed to base upon my authority and that of my
     family. After conversing about your papers and yourself with Judge
     Panet and other persons of position, I am, equally with them, of
     opinion that you have proven the falsity of the said rumours, and
     that you are not the person to whom they relate, your father being
     of great possessions in the country about St. Elphege, and of
     repute throughout the whole Province as an honourable man.

     "J. G. C. DE LERY."

Germain tore the answer into pieces in a passion. "Not the person to
whom they relate!" he cried, "Who am I then, and what shelter would this
precious epistle give me against the son?" Stepping to his escritoir he
wrote back the following fiery note:---

     "_To Monsieur de Lery, Chevalier of St. Louis, at Quebec._

     "MONSIEUR,--After having employed all honourable means to induce
     you to grant me that satisfaction which you owe to me, I hereby
     notify you that you can avoid dishonour only by one of two
     alternatives: either by signing the letter sent you by me,
     unaltered in any particular; or by being present this day at four
     of the clock at the place called Port St. Louis, to render account
     on the spot of the reports which you have been purposely spreading
     against my honour, and to accord to me in your person the
     satisfaction they deserve. I shall expect your answer at once upon
     your reading this, and if by mid-day I have not received it, I
     shall prove to you my exactitude to my word.--I am, sir (if you
     accept either proposal), your servant with all my heart,

     "LECOUR DE LINCY."

While he was hotly engaged in penning this letter to the father, the
incidents of his duels with the son Louis crowded before him--the
counsels of his friends, the choosing of the weapons, the deadly tension
of the combat, the look of furious contempt in his adversary's eyes. It
was only after he had sent off Madame's man-of-all-work with it that the
incongruousness of challenging so old a man struck him.

The Chevalier, on receiving the challenge, perceived at once the gravity
of his own situation. The code of the time demanded his acceptance. He
knew that, however a duel might be laughed at by boasters, the sober
truth was that it brought a man face to face with death, and that the
present cause of quarrel was not worth any such sacrifice. In short the
thing seemed to him foolish and unreasonable.

No time was to be lost. He had therefore recourse for advice to his boon
companion Panet, who pronounced it a bad business.

"Really," he said, moving nervously, "you must recognise, my dear de
Lery, that men of our stiffness and weight can have no chance pitted
against a young fellow from the fencing schools of Versailles. He has a
wrist as limber as a fish no doubt. Try to end the affair some way."

De Lery, annoyed and disappointed that the judge did not rise to the
occasion, and thrown back on his own resources, went to Lord Dorchester
himself, requesting his mediation.

The Governor read over the letters which had passed, especially that
sent by LeCour for signature.

"Tut, what a young fool. Tell LaNaudiere there to send for him," he
exclaimed.

So in about half an hour Germain appeared.

Guessing the state of the matter, he began by complaining of his wrongs
on the part of the de Lerys. He was listened to to the end by
Dorchester, who then, with the greatest politeness, but firmly, pointed
out the impossibility of any man of honour signing the proposed
confession.

"Do you both agree, gentlemen, to leave the form of the letter with me?"

Germain could not do otherwise.

The Governor sat down at a writing-desk, laid the epistle before him,
and produced the following:--

     "MONSIEUR,--It is with great pleasure that I consent to testify in
     your favour against certain injurious rumours affecting your
     reputation and family name, which have been circulated by
     unauthorised persons in the name of my household. You have clearly
     proven to me that the rumours in question are calumnies without any
     foundation, and I am sincerely affected concerning the pain they
     have given you."

Dorchester read what he had written.

"There is my award," he pronounced. "It is, in my opinion, all that one
gentleman ought to demand of another. Do you consider it fair each of
you?"

Each declared it satisfactory.

"Then sign it, Mr. de Lery," said the Governor promptly. De Lery signed
it.

Dorchester gave it to Germain.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

"Perfectly, your Excellency."

Germain thrust the letter in his breast and bowed himself out. On sober
thought he preferred it to his own. The same evening he sailed for
Europe. But not before he had secured the signature of the Bishop of
Quebec to a copy of his birth-certificate, altered according to the
judge's order procured at Montreal.

Onward, onward, he impatiently counted the leagues of the sea by day. A
ravishingly fair face beckoned in his dreams by night.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE RECORD


On New Year's morning de Lotbiniere was crossing the great courtyard of
the Louvre, when he heard the voice of Louis de Lery calling him. The
Bodyguard was hurrying forward with a curl of disgust on his lip, and
holding out an open letter.

The Marquis, stopping, took it with a glance of inquiry.

"More of the beast!" ejaculated Louis.

The letter was one from Madame de Lery, relating with a woman's
indignation the proceedings of Germain during his first visit to Quebec.

"_Mon Dieu!_ how disgusting," Louis exclaimed.

"More than that--it is felonious," almost shouted the Marquis, great
veins swelling upon his forehead and his hand shaking with rage. "Should
the monster ever land again upon the shores of France from which I drove
him, my God, I will hang him! Leave me this letter."

"The fellow is gross enough to return," said Louis scornfully. "What
could be plainer--his movements speak for themselves."

Here a shabby individual stepped up, handed the Marquis a note, and at
the same time beckoned the two into a corner out of the crowd. The
billet was a scrap on which was written only--

     "LECOUR."

Mystery had a fascination for de Lotbiniere. Not so for Louis, who was
impatient that so seedy a person should presume to stop them. Still, on
being handed the paper, he condescended to remain.

"Craving pardon, my Lord," said Jude--it was of course he--in a low
voice, "I have word for you in this affair. Your powerful movements are
known to me."

"Indeed?"

"I know your sentiments on the impostor."

"And you wish me to buy some information from you?"

"Monsieur le Marquis--he is my enemy also: I ask no price, only your
co-operation with a humble individual like myself."

"Speak on."

"It is all letters to day, my Lord. I heard you both discuss that of
Madame de Lery."

"You are a spy, then?" asked Louis tartly, scorn flashing across his
face.

"An _observer_, Monsieur--one of the King's secret service."

"A 'Sentinel of the nation,'" the Marquis said, only the more deeply
interested, smiling and tendering his snuff-box to Jude graciously.

"And next?" added he.

"Next, too, is a letter. I watched the mails addressed to his
correspondents and friends here. This is a letter to his valet."

The Marquis took it. It read--

     "DOVER, _6th January, 1789_.

     "MY DEAR DOMINIQUE,--Prepare for me within ten days after you
     receive this.

     "DE LINCY."

"_Peste!_" hissed the Marquis.

Jude pressed a folded paper into his hand, slipped behind a pillar and
disappeared, and the two relatives joined the crowd. The Marquis that
day made copious entries in his journal.

His life was now entirely engrossed in the controversy with LeCour. As a
Frenchman the occupation was dear to his heart. What Norman does not
love a lawsuit? What Parisian, politics? The journal became even more
complete and exact on the matter and teemed with expressions of contempt
thrust home to the heart of the absent adversary. It recapitulated
minutely the manner in which LeCour had been discovered wearing the
Repentigny name; the refusal of the slayer of Philibert to punish him;
the change of name to de Lincy, which de Lotbiniere shrewdly attributed
to the genealogist; the conduct of de Bailleul; the real origin of the
Lecour family, with the history of the father; the duels with Louis, and
his vexations on account of the matter; the writer's journey to Chalons,
Troyes, and Versailles, the circumstances of the disappearance of
Germain, and the news of his actions in Canada.

After bringing his account down to date with a description of the
written proofs collected, he laid the journal aside, opened the drawer
of his secretary and took out a folio sheet of an exceedingly heavy
wrapping-paper. This he bent over so as to make it into something
resembling the cover of a book, then cut a lining of white unruled
foolscap for this improvised cover, and taking out his paste-pot, fitted
it neatly to the inside. Next he clipped up a length of linen tape and
by means of wafers attached eight pieces of it as ties to the top,
bottom, and sides. The whole constituted one of those record-covers
which he had been taught to make for the papers of special enterprises
in his profession. On the outside he pasted a small square labelled:--

+-------------------------+
|         PAPERS          |
|                         |
|   RELATIVE TO LECOUR,   |
|  REPENTIGNY, DE LINCY,  |
|                         |
|       ET CETERA.        |
+-------------------------+

There was, he considered, a fine turn of irony in "_et cetera_."

The record-cover completed, he surveyed it front and back with
satisfaction, tried the ties, read the inscription over once more, and
opened it. In it he placed a long "_Extract from my journal_," written
with care in his beautiful handwriting and bound with a tiny ribbon.

Next, he added some letters of Collinot to himself and de Lery. These
were followed by copies of his own to the latter. His epistle of
reproach to de Bailleul came next. Then a genealogical memorandum of the
family of LeGardeur. Then Madame de Lery's letter from Canada; after it
a solemn statement which he had caused to be drawn by Quartermaster
Villerai of Chalons. Then the folded paper left by Jude, which was a
copy of the damaging entry discovered by him in the books of the church
of St. Germain-des-Pres. Some lesser documents added to these made up
the nucleus of a _dossier_ or Record--an armoury of weapons which were
to be gathered for the complete and final destruction of the usurper,
should he again set foot in France.

Only a day or two passed when another letter came to him from Madame de
Lery. It related the actions of Germain on his second visit to Quebec,
dwelling, with the rage of a proud woman, on what had passed between her
husband and the young man. Judge Panet, too, had joined his efforts to
hers, and rapidly tracked Germain's intrigues from Notary d'Aguilhe to
the Judge and the young gentlemen of Montreal, and from the Governor at
Quebec to the sacristy of the cathedral. He therefore was able to
enclose a packet of letters and affidavits arranged in order, and which
included among others--

1. A long foolscap statement by d'Aguilhe, in which the Notary of St.
Elphege took care to duly magnify his own dignity and precautions.

2. A copy of the Lecour petition to insert the titles into the contract
of marriage.

3. A letter from Chief Justice Fraser about the granting of the
petition.

4. A copy of the marriage contract of Lecour's parents showing the
alterations.

5. A letter from Lord Dorchester on the duel arbitration, addressed to
Madame de Lery, and sealed with his seal.

6. One from the Bishop of Quebec.

7. A copy, signed by him, of the true birth-certificate of Germain.

8. A total repudiation by Quinson St. Ours of the affair of the banquet
at Montreal.

9. A letter from General Gabriel Christie, Commander-in-Chief of the
forces in Canada and proprietor of the Seigniory of Repentigny: "I
declare upon my honour that I have never sold my Seigniory of
Repentigny."

Letters and certificates from nearly all of the most prominent of the
French gentry of the colony concerning Lecour, his family, and his
pretensions.

The affair was causing a rustle among the entire alliance, and the
letters were full of the terms, "my dear cousin," "uncle," "brother,"
&c.

D'Aguilhe (No. 1) said, among other things, "The probity and good faith
which should be the basis of the actions of all men, and more
particularly those of a _Public Person_, preserved me from condescending
to the reiterated demands made upon me by the Sieurs Lecour, father and
son, to myself make the additions of the titles in question to the said
contract, a thing which I refused absolutely, giving them plainly to
understand that a deed received by a Notary, made and finished in his
notariat and enregistered, was a _sacred thing_, to which it could not
BE PERMITTED TO ANY ONE TO MAKE THE SLIGHTEST ALTERATION WITHOUT
PROFOUND DISGRACE."

Chief Justice Fraser (No. 3) wrote: "Some time ago I heard some rumours
current about Monsieur LeCour, but I had no idea I had played a _role_
in the affair. Here are the facts: In September last a Guard of his
Majesty the King of France presented himself with his papers, which
appeared to me as much in proper form as foreign papers could seem to
me. He presented a petition to me to be permitted to add the names 'de
Lincy' and 'Esquire' to his documents. I allowed it. I had no suspicion
that the Guard or his papers were impostures. In any event, I reap from
this incident the pleasure of corresponding with Madame de Lery."

The letter of Quinson St. Ours (No. 8) read: "Sir and dear relative,--I
should deem myself lacking in what I owe both to you and to myself were
I to neglect to destroy the suspicion you have formed of my conduct in
the affair of Monsieur, your son, against Lecour. I can give you my word
of honour that I always refused to give my signature to his different
petitions. My brother informs me that you say 'that several of your
friends, and even of your relations at Montreal, certified that Monsieur
Lecour was a gentleman.' I am not of their number, and I do not know
that family."

The Marquis eagerly read the packet through, digested its contents,
blessed his ally Panet for his professional methodicality, and placed
the papers in order in the Record.

After the flight of more than a century, this Record, yellow and faded
and a little worm-eaten, but complete even to its wax seals, its
wire-headed pins, and the thin gilt edges of the correspondence paper,
lies before the writer of these pages, a vivid fragment of the old
_regime_, a witness to the hatred, the activity, the very thoughts, as
it were, of the enemies of Lecour, and revealing his perils from their
inner side.




CHAPTER XXXIX

THE MARQUIS'S VISITOR


On the very day after the Panet documents were added to the Record a
visitor called upon the Marquis.

"The 25th of January," records the latter in his journal, "there entered
my apartments, about half-past ten in the morning, a young man, wearing
a sword and a hat with a white plume, his suit entirely of black
knitcloth with trimmings to match, of middle height, firmly built and
well-looking, skin fine with plenty of colour, eye nearly black, soft
and somewhat large, surmounted by a black eyebrow."

"My name is Monsieur de la Louviere, Gendarme of the Guard," he said. "I
come on the part of the Chevalier de Bailleul respecting the matter of
Monsieur LeCour."

"Be seated, sir," replied the Marquis with interest, indicating a chair
near his writing-desk, at which he himself sat down. "Is this Lecour
known to yourself?"

"I am a friend of his," replied M. de la Louviere.

"Where is he now?"

"A week ago he was in England."

"Have you not heard that he is an impostor?"

"I only know, sir, that he is a very unfortunate man, and that you, who
have so interested yourself against him, have only to show him leniency
and kindness and you would be surprised at his gratitude. I carry the
appeal of the Chevalier to you, desirous of seeing whether the trouble
cannot be amicably arranged."

"Tell the Chevalier de Bailleul, sir, that all who bear the name of
Canadian have a claim upon my good nature, particularly any son of a
servant once in my employ. I shall oppose him no further, provided he
but at once replace himself in his own rank. I only, secondly, exact
that the honour of Monsieur de Lery, as the nephew of Madame my wife, be
completely cleared and sustained with his comrades and officers." The
Marquis here noticed that the Record was lying upon the table under the
eyes of the stranger, but the latter continued the conversation.

"That can be done. But it ought to be so arranged as not to interfere
with the standing, for the present, of Monsieur Lecour, because,
Monsieur le Marquis, one of his protectors, the Duc de Liancourt, has
arranged to bestow on him the commandancy of his cadet institute in the
provinces."

"An infinitely better position for him than remaining in the company of
Noailles," remarked de Lotbiniere, removing the Record from the table,
"seeing the Bodyguards have caught the rumour of his birth."

"But it is a part of the arrangement that he should stay in the
Bodyguard eighteen months longer."

"Why should such a person be so much considered? Monsieur de Lery has
done nothing more than tell the exact truth, which is the duty of a man
of honour when pressed by his superiors. He has been most properly
avenged; I see nothing left to arrange."

"But he would be still exposed to a challenge to fight."

"His officers have forbidden him to fight with an inferior."

"There remains the certainty of a caning."

"What do you wish to be done?"

"That Monsieur de Lery should merely say off hand before his friends
that what he had told of Monsieur Lecour was said at hazard."

"Then, sir, tell the Chevalier de Bailleul that when I said I was
willing to arrange that affair amicably I did not know that he would
dare to propose that I commence by consenting to the formal and complete
dishonour of Monsieur de Lery. Judge, now, whether a proposal of the
sort could be made to me about the cousin-germain of my children?"

"Excuse me, Marquis, this was not exactly my meaning, nor that of
Monsieur de Bailleul."

"Inform Monsieur de Bailleul," cried de Lotbiniere, "that he must feel
it impossible, and that all is finished and over by the orders given to
each of them by their respective adjutants."

"No, sir," the stranger sternly cried, in reply, "all is _not_ finished,
for so unpardonable have been the offences of Monsieur de Lery towards
Monsieur Lecour that _only one of them must live_."

"Then let him kill Lecour instead of some one of his comrades, who would
make life intolerable to him were he to show himself such a coward as
you have proposed. Has he not proved a brave man to have fought so
often, and with that fellow so below his dignity? As for me, knowing
what I owe to myself, I should refuse most scrupulously to compromise
myself with any one who was not of my station. Were I attacked in a
street by such a man, I should defend my life with the greatest spirit;
but never under the arrangements of an affair _en regle_. Such has
always been my way of conduct, according to the truest principles of
honour."

"Of honour!" the stranger exclaimed sarcastically; "and who taught de
Lery to apply these principles to a fellow Bodyguard?"

"He acted, as I have said, under the advice of his superior officers,
especially of Monsieur de Villerai, who is his relative, and a Canadian
gentleman of distinguished ancestry."

"Ancestry! de Villerai of distinguished ancestry! This, then, is the man
who has undertaken to crush my friend Lecour on the question of
extraction! All the world knows that his paternal uncle, of the same
name as he, is a common carter in Quebec, and his children in the last
ditch of squalor and degradation."

De Lotbiniere's countenance changed as quickly as though he had been
stabbed.

"To the sorrow of his family, you speak but too truly, although the
father was educated very differently. His misfortune was to have married
a fool, who supposed herself obliged, as the wife of a gentleman, to
dissipate their substance in innumerable petty entertainments; but from
this the only rightful conclusion to be drawn is that that branch has
derogated from _noblesse_, and can no longer pretend to enjoy for the
future the state of its ancestors. But Monsieur Lecour must know well
that, as for the branch of the Chevalier de Villerai, the further back
you go in his family tree in Canada the more brightly his _noblesse_
stands forth in splendour."

"His grandfather," the stranger retorted scornfully, "was a runaway
bankrupt out of the prison of Rouen. And who is this de Lery? His
father, during the siege of Quebec, instead of confronting the enemy,
went buying up cattle in the parishes to sell over again to the
commissariat at the expense of the misery of an expiring people."

"Who told you that?" cried de Lotbiniere in a passion. "Who is the
author of such an infamy? I have heard that story told of Monsieur de
Lanaudiere, but it is as false of one as of the other. It was to Captain
de Lanaudiere that the compulsion of farmers to bring in provisions was
entrusted, but even he went out as an officer doing duty, and never as a
trader in beef. Lies, all lies!"

"Let that pass, then," said the unknown Gendarme of the Guard; "but
though I can understand de Lery's reporting to his superior on being
pressed for information, it was nothing less than ignoble and disgusting
of him to have spread these tales concerning my friend among his
comrades."

"What!" returned de Lotbiniere, "when Lecour was wearing the name of his
uncle!"

"If he wore it he did not seek it; it was his companions who gave it to
him."

"To have worn it at all, sir, admits of no excuses."

"It was never dishonoured by him; it suffered in nothing."

"That may be, but it does not destroy in the slightest this most sacred
principle of society, that each one carry his true name and not that of
another."

The stranger lost patience.

"Eh, but, sir," he cried, "this name is not so precious! This name is
not so precious, I say, after the adventure of the eldest of the family,
who was hung in effigy in that country for having assassinated a worthy
citizen of Quebec on his doorstep at the entrance to the Upper Town. And
my friend Lecour possesses the proofs of it. It was Panet who was the
judge that condemned him for the assassination and ordered him hanged in
effigy."

"Hold," returned the Marquis, "Panet the judge? Does your friend not
know that Monsieur Panet was only a simple attorney in the days of the
French _regime_? I see that you are very badly informed. He of whom you
speak was my best friend from childhood, and without question one of the
most estimable men Canada ever produced. This is what befell: His
quarters as an officer were given him upon Philibert, a man who, having
kept a bakery, furnished the King's store with bread for the soldiers at
Quebec, whence he grew to look upon himself as the King's
_munitionnaire_, and exempt from providing quarters. Monsieur de
Repentigny presents his order for lodgings. Philibert refuses.
Repentigny replies, 'This must be settled either with the
Lieutenant-General, whose written order this is, or with the
Intendant--but I must be lodged either by you or by some one else.'
Philibert, who was a brute, and filled himself with wine at every meal,
goes after his dinner and insults the Intendant, who threatens him with
prison unless he arranges for Monsieur de Repentigny. The man, leaving
there, rushes, drunk with anger and wine, to Monsieur de Repentigny,
whom he covers with the most insolent and revolting expressions.
Repentigny turns him out of his chamber. Philibert, continuing his
outrageous shouts, ends by delivering the officer a violent stroke of
his cane. Monsieur de Repentigny then, as one might well do on such
sudden pain and provocation, drew out his sword and ran him through the
body, so that he died a couple of days afterwards. That, sir, is your
assassination without cause! Then the Sovereign Court of course was
obliged to order his decapitation in effigy--not his hanging, as you
say; and such is the measure of truth in the information which is given
you by that young man on the occurrences of his native colony."

The Marquis's voice having risen in a towering fury, it was impossible
to say any more to him, and the Gendarme of the Guard, with a smile,
rose and bowed himself out. Immediately after his departure, the Marquis
uttered a sudden exclamation.

He hastened to the lodging of his nephew, and asked him, in great
excitement, what was the personal appearance of Lecour. By close
comparison he arrived at the confirmation of his suspicion--that his
visitor had been none other than the adventurer himself.




CHAPTER XL

AN UNEXPECTED ALLIANCE


Fortified with the glimpse into the camp of his adversaries which his
bold call upon de Lotbiniere gave, Germain lost no time in making his
preparations for the approaching battle. Grancey, at Troyes, received a
hasty line from him--

"Complete proofs now ready; am coming."

The Baron was among a group of comrades in his chambers when the note
arrived. He immediately ordered wine, over which they discussed in
heated terms of sympathy the persecution of their friend and comrade.

When Germain appeared at the gates it seemed as if sunshine had returned
to the company. To him their happy faces were an exhilaration, and he
felt as if he were living once more. His fellow-officers rushed towards
him, and the Guardsmen crowded around. He was besieged with questions,
refreshments were brought to him, and they carried him in triumph to his
former chambers, which they had decorated with flowers. As soon as he
could he made his way to Collinot, and asked that a time be fixed for
the hearing of his case.

"This day fortnight at ten of the clock before noon," Collinot said in
his decisive, military manner.

Lecour saluted and retired, and the Adjutant wrote a notice for de Lery
to prepare his counter-proof.

Both sides entered into the contest with the utmost activity.

Germain's party gave him a banquet, whereat he, crowned with honours and
elated by the surrounding enthusiasm, made an oration which sent all
those present forth after the festivity to spread again the burning
conviction of his stainless honour and of the shameful conduct of his
enemies. It was all a desperate game, as he knew perfectly well. But the
stake was high--the object of his life--Cyrene.

Louis de Lery immediately sent to de Lotbiniere the notice he received
from Collinot. The measures of the Marquis were varied and vigorous.

First he took the Record with him, and travelled posthaste to Chalons,
where he asked de Lery to take him to their relative, de Villerai.

"You are the man to present this, my dear Villerai," said he. "Being in
this distinguished corps, you have an influence to which none of the
rest of us can pretend. I leave the papers in your hands. You have
merely to hand them to the Prince de Poix or Adjutant Collinot to secure
absolutely the obliteration of that _canaille_."

"Certainly, certainly. Leave them with me. They shall be perfectly safe
in my possession. Believe me, dear de Lotbiniere, I shall do everything
excellently for you."

De Lotbiniere, reading the easy-going face of the bluff epicurean in
uniform, said to himself, "If it required any brains I could not trust
you."

The Record was therefore left in de Villerai's charge.

De Lotbiniere next went to Paris and wrote to Collinot, stating that de
Villerai would be on hand on the day appointed, prepared to present the
de Lery side of the case. He furthermore wrote to the Count de
Vaudreuil, reminding him of the Canadian connections of his family, and
invoking his exalted interest at Court against the intruder upon their
social rights. The Prince de Poix was likewise reminded by him, in a
letter, of the decision he had expressed against Lecour during their
interview some months before.

These precautions taken, he remained in Paris, confidently awaiting the
outbreak of his powder mines and the destruction of the _parvenu_.
Matters lay in a condition of suspense until the fateful hour.

In the afternoon of the day previous the Chalons diligence brought a
stranger who sought out Germain in his quarters. The face was so
familiar that Germain's attention was riveted upon him.

"You do not know me, I see," said the man; "but I am come to do you a
good turn, a fine turn, a noble turn."

By something erratic in his look Lecour recognised the would-be slayer
of de Lery, and his hand crept towards the hilt of his sword.

"Don't be afraid of me," said the maniac; "we are allies."

"I am not afraid," Lecour answered. "What do you wish of me?"

"To give you this," Philibert exclaimed gaily, handing him a packet.
"Take it; your battle is won."

With incredulous wonder Lecour looked at the parcel.

"Do you know who I am?" the stranger cried.

"You are Philibert," replied Lecour.

"I am The Instrument of Vengeance," the other corrected, and departed
without a bow.

On opening the packet Germain, to his utter astonishment, found de
Lotbiniere's Record, the precious armoury collected with so much labour
by his enemies and so necessary to their case.

As he looked over the documents it contained and felt the sharpness of
the different thrusts, he turned hot and dizzy; but the fact that this
great find was in his possession, and lost to his opponents, gave him
inexpressible satisfaction. He pored over them till far past midnight,
when at last his feeling of exultation gave way to overwhelming remorse.
His aspect suddenly became that of haggard misery itself; his head
dropped, and he murmured in a low, agonised voice, "Is poor Germain
Lecour really a liar, a pretender, a forger, a----" Aghast, his lips
refused to pronounce the word.

His head dropped still lower; at the movement something fell out of his
breast upon the floor. For some moments he did not perceive it. "Yet
these things--liar, pretender, forger--what are they more than words
contrived by the powerful to condemn the doings of the weak? Whom have I
wronged? Have not I only defended myself? Why should the contrivances of
society--not mine--stand between me and all that is worth living for?"
His glance at length lighted upon the object which had fallen from his
bosom--a large locket. The fall had sprung open its lid, and he was face
to face with the miniature image of Cyrene. The light of his consuming
passion flamed in his strangely transformed eyes.

"For you, everything," he murmured, sobbing.




CHAPTER XLI

A POOR ADVOCATE


The Prince, as Colonel of the company, came specially to Troyes by the
desire of Collinot, though the trouble bored him, for he liked Germain,
and would never have raised the question concerning his birth had it
merely come to his knowledge without the scandal of formal charges. To
keep the company in as aristocratic shape as possible as part of his
establishment was a thing in which his princely _eclat_ was concerned.
He came bringing with him his wife's father, the Duke of Beauveau,
Marshal of France. The Marshal, whose white hair, stately form, and
liberal ideas were universally blessed throughout the kingdom, was a man
of singular firmness and kindness in what he considered to be right. He
it was who, as Viceroy of Languedoc, had released the fourteen Huguenot
women who, on account of their religion, had languished in the dungeons
of the Tower of Constance till their heads became blanched with age, and
who had fallen at his feet when the Tower was opened for his inspection.
The frantic demands of bigotry and the repeated orders of the Minister
on that occasion produced no effect upon his pitying heart.

"For justice and humanity," he answered, "plead in favour of these poor
creatures, and I refuse to return them under any less than the direct
order of the King." The King, to his credit--it was Louis XV.--stood
firm also. Beauveau it was, likewise, who refused support to Maupeou's
infamous scheme to stifle the whole magistracy and rule the country
without a court of justice.

The garrison of Troyes and the company considered the advent of the
Marshal their opportunity for a grand review, and an invitation had been
sent to the company de Villeroy, who came over from Chalons. Nominally
the Lecour affair did not enter into the consideration of the
authorities, but there was no doubt that it was the grand topic of
excitement among both corps of the Bodyguard.

At ten of the clock--the appointed hour--the Marshal, accompanied by the
Prince, entered the hall where Germain stood ready for the
investigation. The breast of the old Commandant was covered with stars
and well-earned distinctions, and the glittering Order of the Holy
Ghost, with its crust of great diamonds, scintillated upon it. Before
him, on the table was Germain's document-box open. Collinot sat beside
it, examining the papers, one after another. Nobody else was present.

The Marshal was given the great chair of honour, and the Prince another
beside him. The latter sat furtive and uncomfortable. Lecour experienced
a sensation of his own immense inferiority to the grand soldier who was
sitting as his judge, and he felt helpless and uncertain in such hands.

"Adjutant," began the Marshal, "where are the parties? Is this gentleman
Monsieur de Lincy?"

Collinot assented. Germain bowed and turned ghostly white.

"Have you examined his credentials, and how do you find them?"

"They appear correct, my Lord Duke."

"Are the accusers not here?"

"Perhaps they are delayed, my Lord."

"It is a grave thing to keep a man in suspense over an accusation."

All waited silently several minutes. Every second seemed to pull with
the tug of a cable on Germain's beating heart.

The door opened. In hurried the Chevalier de Villerai, heated, rubicund,
confused, and his uniform partly in disorder, saluting the Marshal as if
bereft of his senses.

"Your Excellency--your Grace, I mean--I--I--most humbly--your
Excellency--ah--pardon me, your Grace."

"Entirely, Quartermaster. You represent Monsieur de Lery, I presume?"

"Yes, but--but--but----" Villerai stammered, and stopped, his face
growing redder.

"Proceed quite tranquilly, Monsieur de Villerai," the Marshal remarked.
"What accusation do you bring against Monsieur de Lincy?"

Villerai cast an uncomfortable glance at Germain, then he blurted out
"That he is--an--some say an im----. I confess I know nothing against
the gentleman myself--he seems to be a very nice young man, but Monsieur
de Lery says he is something of that sort."

"And that his proper title is not de Lincy, but that he is the son of a
merchant in Canada who is no noble?" Collinot added.

"You know nothing against him yourself?" Beauveau asked of Villerai.

"Nothing myself, very true."

"You bring evidence, then?"

"My Lord--Marshal we have no evidence. I throw myself on your
goodness--I had some papers with the contents of which I am
unacquainted--but where they are I--I--pardon me your Excellency--this
is a very unfortunate affair."

"I think so, Monsieur de Villerai. Your friends have brought to trial a
perfectly innocent man--they have allowed him, for several months, to
remain under the intolerable vexations of the ban of society, and to
stand deprived of his birthright as a gentleman--have destroyed him at
Court--have almost blighted his career--have forced him to expose his
life to the ocean, to take far-off and highly perilous journeys to
collect his defences--and have compelled him more than once to brave
mortal combat. They have done all this, as it appears, while his claims
were perfectly regular, and while they themselves fail to produce the
slightest atom of evidence against him beyond the unsupported assertions
of their own family. What am I, as patron of this regiment, and a
military man of sixty years' experience, to say to this state of
things?"

"Excuse my--my Lord," de Villerai cried in desperation. "I said our
proofs are lost."

"It was your duty to have properly kept them. The opportunity for trial
has been given. The accused has responded and cleared himself. You may
depart, sir."

"Monsieur de Lincy," continued he, addressing the latter, with an
alteration from his severe tone to the kindest of voices, "it almost
moves me to tears to think of the indignities to which you have been
subjected. Your honour is absolved, and Major Collinot is requested to
make entry of this fact on the registers of the company, to avail you in
case these charges should ever be repeated. You are reinstalled with
your full rank and record, and moreover, in order that your
reinstallment may be unequivocal in the eyes of the public, I appoint
you my special _aide-de-camp_ for the review of this morning. Horse
yourself and report at my apartments."

Lecour had stood throughout the interview perfectly motionless--almost
statuesque, except a slight clinching of the hands at times. His
feelings, however, were at the highest possible tension, and his eyes
observant of the slightest changes on the faces of those concerned, and
when he found de Villerai--who was a stranger to him--so helpless, a
feeling of triumph unexpectedly possessed him. He knew, of course, about
the Record--- divined that de Villerai had been entrusted with it--in
fact, through the mysterious means related, it was safe above their
heads locked in his own sleeping chamber. But what he had been uncertain
of was what sort of a man the Quartermaster would turn out to be as a
representative of de Lery--what kind of a case he would make without the
writings--how much of them he would recite--how that recital would be
received by the tribunal--and whether the tribunal would have any regard
whatever to the evidence or condemn him by some instinct of caste
prejudice. While turning these thoughts over like lightning in his mind,
they were brought to a standstill by the pronouncement of Marshal de
Beauveau and the sudden relief and violent sense of gratitude produced
by the old soldier's sympathetic address to himself.

He felt he had won Cyrene.

He mounted the staircase to his apartment as if his feet were winged.
The quarters were deserted. The company had already mustered and marched
to the review ground, a levelled field adjoining the boulevarded
rampart, surrounded with willow trees and known as the Champ-de-Mars.
Germain, as he approached it, riding with the Marshal and the Prince,
felt as he had not since he had first put on the uniform of the
Bodyguard. His spirit seemed to prance with joy like the horse beneath
him. He had now that security, the want of which had caused him such an
ocean of misery; he felt that his enemies were now conquered, and that
Cyrene was at last his.

Thus they rode to the Champ, where he could see the various regiments,
drawn up at the "attention," in a long, brilliant line, their arms
shining in the sun, the two companies of the Bodyguard mounted, in their
centre, with their magnificent standards and gorgeously arrayed bands.
It was a thrilling and beautiful sight.

When they came to the edge of the Champ, the horses of the Marshal and
his staff quickened pace, and soon, galloping down the field, they
passed in front of the whole division, every eye both of soldiers and
spectators levelled towards them. Lecour was the object of intense
interest. At this conspicuous moment the Marshal called him to his side
and entrusted him with a general order to pass to the commanders of the
regiments.

Germain galloped first to the company of Noailles and passed the order
with a grave salute to the Prince, who had taken his position in front
of it as Colonel. As he did so, the enthusiasm of his companions got the
better of their discipline, and they broke into a loud, prolonged cry of
"Vive de Lincy!" The members of the company of Villeroy had, as a body,
always felt more or less contrary in the affair to their companion de
Lery, and there was a party who had strongly favoured Germain. The
proof, now so clear, that Louis' accusations had been rejected, suddenly
converted the rest to Lecour's side and an enthusiasm similar to that of
his own company broke out in their ranks too, resulting in a
continuation of the cry, "Vive de Lincy!" This extraordinary scene
excited the other troops. The whole line broke out again and again into
the repeated cry of, "Vive de Lincy!" while Germain rode rapidly along.
The crowd of spectators took it up, and added tremendous shouts of
approbation. Nor did the cry end with the parade. He heard it
everywhere; at mess-table it was the greeting as he entered, the
response to numerous toasts to his health, and the last sound he heard
as he sank to sleep at night.

The feelings of de Lery were very different. The shout was to him his
social doom. He stood his ground and executed his duty without an
external sign, but his heart withered when his comrades there and then
commenced to shun him and drive him into Coventry. No protestations, no
statements that he could make, would, he knew, have been of any avail;
so he spared himself the trouble. Withdrawing entirely into a proud
reserve, he was soon banished from the regiment and from society, and
driven to find a refuge over the ocean in Canada, where, hidden from the
eyes of European criticism, he entered upon a new career.

The Marquis de Lotbiniere heard of the loss of the documents first by a
letter from de Villerai. On the same day he received the following from
the Count de Vaudreuil--

     "AT VERSAILLES, the 13th February, 1788.

     "I should always be well disposed, sir, to oblige persons who, like
     Monsieur de Lery, might have aroused my interest; but _it is
     impossible for me to become the accuser of anybody whatsoever_.
     _Such a maxim is absolutely opposed to all my principles_ and to
     the invariable law which I have made for myself and from which I
     cannot depart. It is the place of the Prince de Poix to examine the
     candidates who present themselves for admission to the Bodyguard;
     that duty is entirely foreign to me. Be convinced of all the regret
     I feel in being unable, in this case, to do what would be agreeable
     to you, and accept fresh assurances of the sincere attachment with
     which I have the honour to be, sir,

     "Your very humble and obedient servant,

     "THE COUNT DE VAUDREUIL."

A worse blow followed, in a brief newspaper account conveying word of
the total defeat of the accusations.

Great movements, he heard, had been aroused among the highest circles of
Court, in Lecour's favour; the Prince de Poix had proved a broken reed,
while the Bodyguards of both companies had clamoured for their de Lincy.
The Marquis vented his rage upon de Villerai behind his back, but after
a few days concluded it advantageous to make no further references to
the son of the cantineer.

Germain's first action was to rush to Versailles and clasp in his arms
the love of his life. She, her eyes brimming with the happiness, faith,
and trustfulness of a pure young girl, rejoiced in the vindication of
her insulted knight.

News of another addition to his possessions arrived, while it brought a
grief. Events had been too much for the Chevalier de Bailleul. He died
in the latter part of the month of February, and a letter from the
intendant of his estates informed Germain both of the sad event and at
the same time that the veteran had bequeathed him Eaux Tranquilles and
his fortune. The intendant, a local attorney named Populus, quoted the
clauses of the will, and asked instructions from his new master.




CHAPTER XLII

A HARD SEASON


The first few days by Germain and Cyrene, after the death of de
Bailleul, were spent in genuine sorrow. Their thoughts were recalled to
those dear and delicious weeks at Fontainebleau, and they decided that
Germain should revisit Eaux Tranquilles and prepare it for their bridal.
Wishing to do so undisturbed by business he sent no word to his
intendant, but set out on the journey mounted on a good horse, along the
road by Bicetre and Corbeil. It was the beginning of March, the end of a
winter so severe as to have surpassed the memory of living men. The
Seine had been frozen over from Havre to Paris for the first time since
1709; and, added to the horrors of famine arising from destruction of
the last summer's harvest by hail, the icy fields and gleaming river now
had a terrible aspect to the shivering poor; and even to him, Canadian
though he was, accustomed to think of winter as a time of merriment, for
he thought of the misery of the people.

Towards evening he was forced by a hail storm to stop at the inn of
Grelot, a hamlet which adjoined the park of Eaux Tranquilles.

In the morning he was roused by voices in the village street, and saw by
the sunlight pouring in at the window that the day was well up and the
storm over. The number of voices, though not many, seemed to him
unusual for such a somnolent place at Grelot, so that he rose, took up
his clothing, which had been dried over night by the host and thrust in
at the door at daybreak, partly dressed himself, sat down at the window
and looked out from behind the shutters.

On the opposite side of the road he saw, sitting under a spreading oak
on a bench, the persons who were talking. The long boughs of the tree
were gnarled and leafless, but they overspread most of the little
three-cornered space which constituted the village green, and the sun
upon their interlacing surfaces cheerfully suggested the coming of
spring. Three famished peasants sat on the bench. The bones protruded on
their hollow faces, and their eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. They
were all over fifty; one was much older, and leaned feebly on a cudgel.
Their dress was mean and patched; their battered sabots stuffed with
straw and wool. One was whittling with a curved knife. He was a
sabot-maker.

"It is not possible to live this way," he protested. "People will not
buy sabots nor bucket-yokes."

"They need food before sabots," remarked the old man.

"But I too must have food. Are we never to have good bread again? Three
years ago we had good bread."

"This barley, half eaten away, produces more bran than flour," said the
old man, trembling with weakness. "To make bread of it, my woman is
obliged to work it over several times, and each time there seems so
little left that she weeps. We must soon die."

"Yet there is always a fight for it at the wickets, when it is
distributed," said the third man.

"And one must fight to keep his share. I go to the wickets with my big
knife out," the sabot-maker added fiercely.

"And when one eats it, it gives him inflammation and pains," continued
the old man. "I have seen many years of famine, but never so little
bread, and that so hard and stinking."

"As for me I have found a secret," gravely said the third man, whose
hollow countenance displayed an unnatural pallor. "Over in the
Seigneur's park, above the little spring of water, there is a ledge of
rock. Below that ledge there lies plenty of white clay. That clay is
good to eat. You are hungry no more when you have taken breakfast of
that."

"My God! is our parish reduced to eating earth?" exclaimed the oldest of
the men. "What is to become of France? Heaven is against us."

"I came here before my children woke, because it pierces my heart to
listen to their crying," the sabot-maker said dejectedly.

"Yet everybody knows there is so much good grain in the barns of the new
Seigneur," the earth-eater said in a whining voice.

"While Monsieur the Chevalier lived none starved, at least," the old man
said, his head bowed in despair upon the top of his staff. "What is to
become of us now?"

"It is the fault of the bad people about our King," remarked the
earth-eater.

Every syllable sank into Germain's heart, for _he_ was the new Seigneur.

A loud clattering sound as of some person running rapidly up the street
arrested the conversation of the trio. A countryman, a clumsy, frowsy
fellow, in a terrible fright, stopped under Germain's window out of
breath and turned at bay on his pursuer. The pursuer, likewise out of
breath, was also clumsy, but rather from stoutness than stupidity; he
was a short man of about forty, and his dress was that of one in the
lower ranks of the law. Everybody in the place ran out of doors to see
what the race was about.

"Monsieur Pioche--I--only--want--your--vote," the Attorney panted,
closing up with his victim.

"Let me go, Master Populus," the peasant cried, clasping his hands and
falling on his knees. "Faith of God! I can swear that I have none of
that. I never saw one, I assure you, Monsieur. Search my person and see
if you find one of those things. No, Monsieur Populus, I am only a poor
little bit of a cottager, I have never broken the laws in my life. I
assure you I have no such thing on me. I never saw one, Monsieur."

"My good Pioche--_Monsieur_ Pioche, citizen of the bailiwick of
Grelot--do not go on your knees to one whose only aim is to be the
servant of our citizens."

A suspicious, defensive look was the only expression on the rustic's
face as he rose and peered furtively round to calculate his chances of
escape. A little crowd was meanwhile closing up.

"Know, sir," continued Populus, "that the King, in the plentitude of his
goodness, has learned of the misery of his people and desires to hear
their grievances and set them right. He has ordained that the grievances
of Grelot be set forth for him in due form, and I undertake, sir, to act
in this operation as the humble mouthpiece of my native place. More
particularly his Majesty decrees that the august people do declare its
will upon the formation of a constitution and other grave matters, by
appointing representatives of the Third Estate to the Assembly of the
Estates-General."

"I don't understand anything about all that."

"My dear Monsieur Pioche, that does not matter in the slightest. It is
the best of reasons why you should appoint me your representative."

"I do not understand," the rustic persisted stolidly.

"_Mon Dieu!_ Monsieur Pioche," Master Populus continued, "it is very
simple; promise me your vote. See what I can do for you. You pay the
Seigneur twenty-six livres annual feudal rent of your holding."

"No, twenty-seven."

"Well, say twenty-seven. Now I am the intendant of this new young fool
of a Seigneur, who is away all the time at Versailles. I have the sole
control. Let us strike a bargain. Give me your vote and I will quietly
let you off ten livres of rental. If I wish, I can find some reason for
reporting you at seventeen."

Pioche's eyes assumed an uncertain light of cunning and greed.

"Don't do it, Pioche," cried a one-eyed cobbler. "Notary Mule offers to
abolish all these Seigneur's rights if we elect _him_ to the
States-General."

"Shut up, you tan-smelling bow-legs!" the enraged Populus retorted at a
shout. "Who is this Mule, that he should represent the majesty of the
bailiwick of Grelot? A cur whose very name is enough to relegate him to
limbo; whose deeds are atrocities in ink, whose----"

"Nevertheless he is going to lift our dues. Master Mule is the people's
man," the cobbler returned valiantly.

"What, Mule!" cried Populus with still greater scorn. "Where has he the
power? Am I not the intendant? Is it not I who alone control the dues in
my own person? Yes, gentlemen, who will deny that I hold, so to speak,
the keys of heaven and earth in Grelot, and whom I bind shall be bound
and whom I loose shall be loosed, notwithstanding the impotent cajolery
of all the long-eared Mules in the kingdom?"

The whole population of the village were by this time gaping around him.

"What, you clapper-jawed thief," a voice thundered from behind, "you
venture to malign my name--the honourable appellation of a respectable
family! Know, sir, that I spit upon you, I strike you, I say bah to your
face!"

Maitre Mule was a little round-faced man, forced by his physical
inferiority to Populus to take out his valour by word of mouth.

The two went at it with recriminations, from which Germain learnt much
of his own affairs. The noise of the pair shouting and threatening to
fight together, and the riotous cries of the crowd, "No dues!" "Notary,
give us bread!" grew at length so great that the innkeeper rushed out
exclaiming, "Peace, Messieurs, peace. I have a gentleman from Paris
sleeping upstairs. See, there is the baker's shop just open."

The word "baker" operated better than magic. The rioters rushed over to
the wicket, which was fixed in the door of the shop, and fought and
snarled with each other for their slender purchases of the bread of
famine.

Such were the daily incidents which were leading men on to revolution.




CHAPTER XLIII

BACK AT EAUX TRANQUILLES


"I will alter all this," Germain determined.

Wrapping his cloak closely round him and lowering his hat to prevent
recognition he mounted his horse in the courtyard of the inn and rode
on.

He might have taken a path directly through his own park to the chateau,
but he preferred the highway to Fontainebleau, and, passing the gates of
Eaux Tranquilles, entered the great forest.

With what emotions did not the sight of that neighbourhood thrill him.
He slacked rein to a walk, rode thoughtfully through the bare but
smiling woods and picturesque openings, and stopped with deep feeling at
the spring where he first met the generous benefactor of his life. It
was now sparkling like crystal--its basin fringed with ice. Tears rose
in his eyes and fell freely as he brought his steed into the same
position as when the Chevalier had first addressed him, and he eagerly
strained his sorrowful imagination to discern again the kindly features
of the old man's face and look into his eyes once more.

"I was unworthy of you, my benefactor," he exclaimed. "Oh, may some path
out of my misdoings be yet found which will satisfy your stainless
standard!" Turning back he retraced his route and entered Eaux
Tranquilles.

[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE D'AUTRICHE

Reine de France

1755-1793]

The gardens were deserted. He tied his horse to a seat and walked about.
Amidst his emotions and reminiscences the beauty of the place, even in
its wintry garb, gradually introduced into his thoughts a subdued,
scarcely conscious strain of delight in its ownership. He came at last
to the chateau, stood before it, and looked contemplatively along its
facade. It was almost too grand to seem by any possibility his, yet in
very truth he was lord of Eaux Tranquilles and all its manors.

Sounds of unseemly revelry within fell upon his ear. He listened a
moment, and then stepping up to the great door struck the knocker. The
butler himself opened. He was half drunk, and as he was a man who had
been engaged from Paris since Germain's visit he did not know the
latter.

"What do you want, disturbing gentlemen's diversions?" he exclaimed
insolently. "Who told you to come to this estate?"

"Its master."

"You lie. Do you want me to set the dogs on you?"

"You will neither set the dogs on me nor tell me I lie," Germain said
quietly, and stepped past him into the hall.

"What do you say?" the butler shouted, foaming at the mouth and trying
to seize Germain, who foiled him by drawing his sword. "Jacques! Jovite!
Constant! 'Lexandre! here; put a _canaille_ pig out who defies me!"

The door of an adjoining chamber opened, showing a table covered with
glasses and bottles of choice wines, and three or four footmen in
disordered liveries rushed out with some of the bottles and glasses in
their hands. At the sight of Germain's face one after another stood
stock still and fell upon his knees.

The butler swore savagely. He saw what had happened.

"Who is this man?" asked Germain severely of the footmen.

"Cliquet, the butler, Monsieur," stammered Constant, the oldest. "He was
not here when your lordship was."

"Take him out of the gates," replied the new master, "and send for my
intendant."

Not long after Master Populus entered his presence, bowing and scraping,
with a dozen smiles at once on his face.

"So you are the intendant?" said Germain.

"I have the honour, Monsieur le Chevalier--the greatest honour in seven
parishes, Monsieur."

"Be good enough to pardon me--you have no honour at all, sir.'

"How? what?" gasped Populus.

"None whatever. You are a rascal; but as long as I can make you behave
yourself you shall remain intendant. You misrepresent my rent-rolls."

"Not at all----"

"Listen to me. You bargain away my dues with my _censitaires_."

"Nev----"

"You permit my butlers to drink out of my wine cellars. I warrant you
have the pick of them at your own table."

The Attorney did not know whether he was standing on his head or his
heels, for the hit was correct.

"Finally," Germain went on deliberately, "you 'hold the keys of heaven
and earth in Grelot,' and snap your fingers at 'this new young fool of a
Seigneur who is away all the time at Versailles.'"

Master Populus seemed powerless to move or speak as he stood fiery-faced
in the middle of the floor, looking despairingly at Germain, who was
seated, very coolly glancing him over.

"Well, Master Populus, what do you think?" he proceeded, smiling, after,
pausing a moment. "Do you wish to continue the holding of the keys of
heaven and earth? If so you must do it on _my_ terms. And _my_ terms are
these--no more lying, no more false accounts, no more stealing from my
poor, no more liberties taken with the property and people in your
charge. Do you agree?"

The boldness of the opponent of Master Mule had evaporated. Two meek and
scarcely whispered words alone left his lips--

"Yes, sir."

"Another thing. Are you willing to choose my intendancy at a fair profit
rather than election to the States-General and glory?"

A white wave passed over Populus' countenance. At length, however, he
again whispered--

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, Monsieur Intendant, we can proceed to business. How much
grain have I in the granaries? I have the books here."

"About four thousand bushels of wheat."

"In the book are entered two thousand."

"That is my mistake, sir."

"And of barley how much?"

"Seven thousand."

"You entered it four here. Another mistake, no doubt. See that there are
no such mistakes in future. My instructions to you then, Monsieur
Intendant, are to take the whole of this wheat and distribute it among
our starving people under the instructions of the parish priests.
Superintend this at once."




CHAPTER XLIV

SELF-DEFENCE


Dominique made an incomparable butler. It boots not to tell how, under
his military sway, the servants seemed almost to acquire the new
Prussian drill; the stores and cellars were listed with the system of a
commissariat, dust disappeared like magic from gildings and parquetry,
and order and state surrounded "the young Chevalier" in all his
movements.

But above all the new _maitre d'hotel_ energetically carried out the
immediate wish of his master, and soon everything was ready for an event
to which Germain was looking forward with supreme delight--the coming of
Cyrene to see her future home. The day arrived. The Canoness accompanied
her. The ecstasy of the lovers as they clasped each other in the place
of their first meeting may be left unwritten. Very often was the
Canoness constrained to absorb herself in her little illuminated
prayer-book.

Eight or nine days after the event, the time arrived when it was
customary at Eaux Tranquilles for the tenants to pay their feudal dues,
and Germain was alone in the office of the chateau, looking over the
ancient titles of de Bailleul's inheritances, preparatory to receiving
the "faith and homage" of his subjects.

"I must go no farther," he was saying to himself. "She must not marry me
without knowing everything. The time has come for confession, and I must
spare myself in nothing. What will she think of me when she knows how
false I have been?"

At that point Dominique stepped in gravely and shut the door.

"They are at some mischief in Grelot," he said.

"Against me?"

"It looks that way."

"How? I saw nothing of it yesterday."

The day before being Sunday, Germain had gone over alone in his coach to
attend High Mass in the parish church. The people standing about the
front doors greeted him respectfully, and he passed up the aisle and
took his seat in his raised and curtained pew. The priest, as was
customary, had named him in the prayers as patron of the church, he was
the first to be passed the blessed bread, and the congregation even
received with subdued approbation a warm reference in the sermon to his
distribution of wheat to the poor. His leaving was treated in as
respectful a manner. How then, one day later, could the Grelotins be at
mischief against him?

"It was that Mule and that trash of a Cliquet. They were haranguing the
people after Mass--something about a thing Mule calls the Third Estate.
Nobody knows what it is--but everybody thinks it belongs to himself and
that the aristocrats want to take it from him. So everybody got into a
rage against the aristocrats (save your honour), and Mule brought them
over to the tavern hall, ordered everybody's fill of brandy, and read
out something from the King. He told them the King was on their side,
and for all to tell out their complaints against the Seigneur. So
everybody began to think if he had complaints, and Master Mule wrote
them into a copybook. When Mule read it out, the people groaned and
cried that they never knew they had had so many miseries. Cliquet
shouted that you were the cause of all these miseries; that you had
grain while the peasants were starving, and that they ought to drive you
out of the country and then would all be well."

They were startled by a musket-shot so near the house that Dominique
hastened to the window to look. Germain sprang up too. The office faced
at the rear, close to the old chateau and lake.

A rough fellow with a gun was coolly standing near the great dovecot and
shooting at the pigeons. Dominique threw open the window and shouted.
The answer was a gesture of derision.

Germain rang furiously for the lackeys. For answer Jovite and 'Lexandre
ran up, pale, and out of their wits, reporting that "the brigands" were
invading the front of the house.

"Go and find what is the matter, Dominique," Lecour said, and sprang up
to seek for Cyrene, but checking himself, crossed the corridor and went
to a front window.

He saw a multitude trooping down the gardens from the gates and walls,
over which in the distance he could descry them swarming, and forming a
sort of semicircle around the entrance door. The vanguard were led by a
drum and a violin. The expressions on the faces of the men were wild and
haggard, most wore greasy bonnets of wool, some huge wooden shoes, some
hobnailed ones, and over their shoulders or in their hands protruded
their weapons--pitchforks, scythes, flails, knives, clubs, and rusty
guns. All must have been several thousand, collected from every hamlet
in his territory. They seemed like a legion of some spectre army of
Hunger and Ignorance. In the commander Germain recognised his
discharged butler.

The Canoness he descried escaping, unseen by them, with the aid of a
gardener, across the pond into the park. He withdrew from the window and
fled quickly towards the chamber of Cyrene. She likewise was seeking
him, and in a passage they rushed into each other's arms.

"Where is the Canoness?" she exclaimed.

"She is gone, she was warned," he said. "You know there is danger,
love?"

"I see it," she answered.

"Come," he urged her, "the office is strong, we may have to defend
ourselves."

Thither, therefore, they returned and anxiously awaited Dominique, each
fearful of the safety of the other. For the moment the protection of the
house had to be trusted wholly to the Auvergnat.

Dominique was absent about fifteen minutes, during which Germain could
hear the servants barring the doors, and voices surrounding the house in
all directions. The valet returned and related his observations. After
making the doors fast and collecting the female servants in the hall, he
had carefully looked out of the wicket of the grand entrance, and seeing
no one approaching, opened, and going out to the head of the steps,
inquired of the mob their errand. He was met by a hurly-burly of cries.

"Long live Liberty! Long live the King! Death to the aristocrats! Long
live the nation!"

"What do you seek of Monsieur le Chevalier?"

"His head!" cried Cliquet.

"Bread, bread!" shouted the sabot-maker.

But two others came forward and more rightly interpreted the chief and
quaint demand of the ignorant peasants. They demanded all his
parchments and title-deeds to burn; "for," said they sententiously, "we
shall then be freed of rents and dues, which are now abolished by the
King." Some of the bolder rioters had even started a fire to burn the
documents.

"And if he does not give them up?"

"We must cut off his head and burn down his chateau. We are sorry, but
it is the King's order."

Dominique, in reporting, made no suggestions; instead, he waited for
instructions. Lecour thought a moment. He came to the conclusion to try
severity. "Tell them," said he, "that unless they are quiet I will make
parchments of their skins."

Cyrene caught his arm, but the answer had already gone.

Dominique dropped the _role_ of butler for his old ones of soldier. He
saluted, and marched down to deliver the message. A hush was heard for a
few moments, then the entrance door slammed, and an instant after all
the windows in the mansion seemed to shatter simultaneously before a
tremendous volley of musketry and stones. Every wall and casement shook
with the shouts and racketing sounds of a fierce and general attack.

Germain and Cyrene shuddered. The noise awoke them to the seriousness of
the situation. It brought them face to face with that terrible storm
whose thunderclouds were now thickly darkening over France--the
death-dealing typhoon of the Revolution. A proud thought came into his
head. "My time is come. I shall die defending her."

"Do you and all the servants save yourselves," he said to Dominique. And
he took two pistols from the drawer and laid them on the table, looking
into Cyrene's eyes.

"No, my master," Dominique returned, "if you die, I will die with you.
I know my duty. But let us at least defend ourselves well."

"See that the others escape, and especially the women. It is not right
for them, who are from the country here, to be embroiled with their
relatives. Tell them on no account to open the outer doors, or they run
the risk of massacre, but to make terms through their friends in the
mob."

It was only a question of minutes when the besiegers should succeed in
breaking a door or scaling the walls to the windows and making their
entrance. From the office windows they could see a score of those in the
rear running forward across the grounds with a ladder which they had
secured in the stables. Passing again to the front of the house, Lecour
saw the mob angrily tearing up garden benches and summerhouses for the
same purpose. An active crowd besides, under the urging of Cliquet, was
battering the main door with a beam. The fire, lit for his parchments
was blazing merrily, and a man with a shock of matted hair, by a sudden
impulse snatched a long brand and raised the cry of "Burn him up!"
Others sprang forward to do the same, and fought for the blazing pieces,
but Cliquet bounded down the steps and knocked the matted-hair man down.

"Curse you!" he shouted. "You will spoil the whole business. You don't
know how many good things are in there for us."

Dominique returned from the servants. "They are well arranged for," said
he.

Cyrene tremblingly caught Germain's arm, excited with a new idea. "To
the old chateau! not a moment to lose!" she cried, and seizing Lecour by
the arm hurried him into the passage which communicated between the new
mansion on land and the ancient one in the lake, while Dominique
followed. Half-way across was a decayed wooden door, which once had
done duty as a gate behind the portcullis. They shut and bolted this
with all speed, and then turned to look round them. The crash of the
main door falling and the shout of the mob which followed, penetrated to
their retreat.

"We have plenty of powder and pistols," Dominique exclaimed; "there is
the armoury just at our backs."

The armoury, in truth, was close at hand and in it an ample selection of
old-fashioned weapons.

"Let us place this to command the passage," Germain said, touching a
bronze cannon, after they had taken some pistols and powder.

"Very good, my General," Dominique assented excitedly, and pushing the
rusty trunnion they got it into position. It was an ornate affair, which
had been for centuries discharged by the de Bailleuls on the birthdays
of the family. Cyrene had the good judgment to remain in the armoury.

It was several hours before they were discovered. The reason, as they
concluded by listening at the door in the passage, was the exploring of
the wine-cellars by the besiegers, under the guidance of Cliquet. Blows,
shouts, and crashes indicated numerous acts of destruction. Inevitably,
however, they were at last found out by Cliquet himself, who could not
forego the delights of revenge. He came to the wooden door.

"Baptism, dame, I have you now, you cursed young white-gill!" cried he.
"Break it in, my boys, smash, hack. We'll roast _him_ in place of his
parchments--the man who will make parchments of our skins."

Lecour ran back to take a moment's glance at Cyrene. She was kneeling at
prayer. He withdrew, grasped his pistols with renewed determination, and
stood at his post.

Lecour and Dominique were quite ready--the latter with his fuse, the
former with a pistol in each outstretched hand and the need of saving
Cyrene in his fast-beating heart. They were disciplined soldiers, the
mob was not. No sooner had the door fallen in and the crowd of attackers
rushed into the passage, than the roar of the cannon was heard, its
flame was seen, a cloud of sulphurous smoke thickly filled the passage,
and a mass of mutilated and shrieking creatures covered the floor. A
terrible sorrow for his suffering tenants surged over Germain. A
dreadful silence fell upon the rest of the house, followed by mingled
sounds of confusion in the distance, and soon the main multitude itself
appeared, pressing forward towards the passage.

Lecour, with his pistols undischarged, again stood immovably covering
Dominique, as he deliberately and rapidly reloaded, and once more while
the crowd still pressed on a torrent of shrapnel poured into them,
sickening all finally of the attempt.

The two army men thus remained temporary masters of the situation, but
they knew that the advantage could not serve them long.

As for Cyrene she was weak with the shock, but insisted on making no
complaints. He watched her anxiously and tenderly until she seemed
somewhat recovered, but it was evident by her trembling limbs that a
grave illness was but briefly postponed. The groans which came from the
passage caused her to make several attempts to go to the sufferers, and
she had to be gently restrained and removed by them to another part of
the castle.

As dusk fell the two defenders moved cautiously forward among the
horrors of the dead and dying, and once more rudely fastened up the
door. It became clear that they must attempt an escape, for with the
dark came fresh dangers.

Dominique remained on guard, while Lecour, taking a candle, went
through the old castle, making a rapid survey. The night was clear and
cold, the moon had not yet risen, and the darkness was sufficient to
favour them. He selected a window for the attempt. Then, reckless of
treasures, he cut down some of the old tapestries which lined the
chambers, and slit off enough to twist into a rope. This would bring
them to the level of the water, now thinly covered with ice.

"But will the ice bear us?"

"No, Monsieur, I started across this morning and it broke."

"Of what nature is it?"

"Soft, and bends, and your foot sinks through it."

"Very well, we can cross it."

He hurried back to one of the chambers where there were some of the de
Bailleul portraits hanging, pulled them down with his own hands, and
tore the frames of several apart. Their sides he attached as cross-bars
to others, by means of strings ravelled from the canvas of the
tapestries. The result was a makeshift for snowshoes. With these they
escaped across the ice to the park, unnoticed by their enemies, who, by
the lights in every part of the mansion, they could see were active and
uproarious.

When at last, arriving at the gate of a chateau miles onward toward
Paris they looked back they saw an immense blaze in the distance, and
the heavens aglare from east to west with the conflagration. But the
saving of Cyrene made up in Germain's heart for the loss of his mansion,
and he felt as if by that as he had taken a step towards redemption.




CHAPTER XLV

THE NECESSITIES OF CONDITION


All through the long illness of Cyrene, which followed the revolt at
Eaux Tranquilles, and especially after her first grief for the misguided
men who had fallen in the corridor, her heart dwelt with great intensity
on the destruction of her hope of a home. She recurred to it again and
again in her conversations with him, until he ventured to mention to her
the offer once made to him by Liancourt of the position of Commandant of
the cadet school on his estates.

"Could you retire thither," said he, looking into her eyes with emotion,
"away for ever from your friends, away from your rank, from the Court,
and all that is so brilliant and belongs to you, to live your life along
with a man of humble birth wholly unworthy of you? You speak of a quiet
hearth and of abandonment of the world, but could you make a sacrifice
so great as this?"

"Germain, love, do you not know me yet?" she answered, returning him a
look of affection which profoundly troubled him. He knelt and kissed her
hand in silence. "Is not love life itself?" she said, rising with
difficulty from her arm-chair. "Let us go without delay and obtain
permission," and, taking his hand, led him with steps slow and pitiably
uncertain into the presence of the Marechale.

Madame was seated alone, mumbling to the count of her rosary, but on
their appearance dropped it in her lap and resumed her usual bearing of
dignity.

"Grand-aunt," began the Baroness, "we have a great boon to ask of you."

"What is it, Baroness?" she said.

"Grand-aunt," Cyrene repeated falteringly, "have you ever known what it
is to love?"

The question astonished Madame l'Etiquette. For a moment it seemed as if
a slight mounting of the blood to her wrinkled cheeks was visible. In
the next her features resumed their stiffness, and she answered, "Tush!
that is the business of citizenesses."

"You too have had your dream; I have heard of it," Cyrene persisted.
"Women are women, whatever their sphere."

"Say illusion, perhaps, not dream; but the subject must cease. What do
you want of me after this very _malapropos_ preface?"

"I ask you to consent to our immediate marriage," Cyrene said with
desperate directness, and tremblingly taking the chair which Germain
proffered, sat down with white face, watching Madame de Noailles
anxiously.

The latter did not reply.

"Grand-aunt," pled the young woman, "you have felt like us in your day,
the longing for a home, a sweet refuge from the wretchedness of life.
You had a lover to make you feel how sweet it might have been."

"Get these silly ideas out of your head," responded Madame l'Etiquette,
ignoring Lecour, but speaking in a not unkindly manner. "Your rank
demands an _establishment_, not a home. Monsieur understands that his
position and yours are very different, and that two things at least are
necessary in order to make your marriage possible--his standing as a
Bodyguard, and a complete establishment. The riotous condition of his
province makes the latter very dubious. You understand this, Monsieur de
Lincy?"

"It must be admitted, Madame la Marechale," Lecour said sorrowfully.

"You have some sense, I observe."

"But I can live without an establishment. A position is open to Germain
in the provinces as Commandant of a school," Cyrene exclaimed.

Madame uttered an exclamation so energetic, and she rose so fiercely
from her chair that Cyrene stopped in dismay.

"Saints of heaven!" went on the Marechale, "is the family on the brink
of a catastrophe? Can the Noailles, the Court, and the Crown afford to
allow a Montmorency to annihilate herself? How dare you, forgetful of
your relatives, your position, your descent from a hundred kings,
advance such a proposal to the Chief Lady of Honour. I am something,
Madame, and I intend to be considered, and to see that your family shall
be considered. A pretty idea this, of rustic innocence and rural
retirement, of straw bonnets and shepherding, of the new school to which
you belong and who are the enemies of everything permanent. You are
destroying customs to make way for theories, manners for boon
comradeship, chivalry for finance, elegance for vulgarity, religion for
atheism, and character for sentiment. You are to blame for all the
present disorders, and such as you have brought about the burning of
your own chateau. No, Madame, I will not permit the marriage. How dare
you propose it to her, sir?"

Lecour said nothing. He could not.

Cyrene continued bravely.

"The matter is of the deepest concern--of infinite importance to us."

"I have decided it. I am the guardian of your future, and I intend to
remain so."

"You are the lady head of the family and guardian of my future under the
will of my father, but let me say without disrespect that I am a widow,
and legally control my own right to dispose of my hand."

"You think you could disobey me? I could easily see to that. The King
would refuse to sign the contract of marriage, and there my power would
only begin."

"You cannot prevent us from at least marrying. The humblest French
peasants have a right to that without any royal signature."

"Yes I can, and I will show you the power of the old school!" cried the
dame, straightening herself with an inconceivable triumph and shaking
out the folds of her brocade. "Monsieur de Lincy here knows well that I
am right in preventing you from sacrificing your position. I call upon
_his honour as a noble_ not to allow this disgrace to fall upon you. I
call upon it to sustain the head of your house. I call upon it to
reverence the wish of the dead and the will of the King. You admit me
right and just, Monsieur de Lincy? I call upon your honour as a noble.
Answer me."

"There is but one way of replying," he returned slowly; and Cyrene in
her very anguish showed her pride in his response to the fatal appeal to
his honour.

"Well, then," Madame cried, partaking in that pride and changing her
manner to one of much kindliness, "you have done well and are good
children. Believe that my strictness shall endure no longer than is
necessary. It is true that in the name of order I forbid your marriage,
but I consent to your remaining affianced until these troubles of our
country pass away or Monsieur obtains some establishment, no matter how
small, if sufficient, and even though that should take as long as your
lives may last. Kneel and receive an old woman's blessing."

With what disappointed and mingled feelings they knelt before her and
bowed to the conquest of nature by the Old _Regime_.




CHAPTER XLVI

THE PATRIOTS


At midnight the full moon, silver-gilt, touched the house-fronts of the
Street of the Hanged Man. They lit the figure and slouched hat of Jude,
who, carrying a package, slunk up to the door of the Gougeon shop and
was admitted. The Big Bench were in session. The light of the tallow-dip
seemed to concentrate itself on the wicked smile of the Admiral as he
watched Jude opening the packages.

"Do you know who sent this, gentlemen?" the spy cried, enjoying the
importance of being the bearer of some surprise.

"We are not gentlemen, and we do not know," retorted Hache.

"It was a high personage, rowers--no less a personage than a prince--a
royal prince."

"What have _we_ to do with princes?"

"With the Duke of Orleans, much; rival to the throne, he is the friend
of the people."

"Ah, yes, the friend of the people, and he wants us for something. That
is a good contract," the Admiral interrupted. "Whose windpipe does he
want to cut, and what does he promise to pay for it?"

"Nothing so risky; only some shouting, and as for the pay, here,
Admiral, is the nose of the dog," and he handed him a full bag of coin.

The Admiral tore it open, and exhibited the metal to his greedy-eyed
subordinates. Hache grabbed at a couple of the coins, and joyfully
flipped them up to the ceiling.

"Now what does our friend the Duke of Orleans want? Our _friend_ the
Duke of Orleans, _gentlemen_," the Admiral added, smiling ironically.

"To wear these badges and shout for him," replied Jude, displaying the
contents of his parcel, a couple of dozen red woollen tuques.

"No objection," the Admiral answered; "no objection in the world, but
what is the object?"

"Well, Monsieur Admiral----"

"Shut up with your 'Monsieurs', spy," called Hache. "Do you want us
hunted for aristocrats?"

"Well, Citizen Admiral then, you know how things have been going since
last spring. In May there was the holding of States-General; in June the
National Assembly confront the nobles and swear never to disperse; in
July the Court menaces to suppress the Parisians by the army; on the
eleventh the people slaughtered by the Dragoons; on the fourteenth----"

"The Bastille taken--I was there."

Exultation lit the ring of faces.

"Ragmen, we have had good times since the 14th of July," said the
Admiral. "It is now becoming our turn. I always told you it was coming,
but I am going to give you better still. You are going to learn to love
the sight of red blood better than red wine."

"The aristocrats," Jude continued, "have been skipping over the
frontiers; the people starving and rising to their rights; we hung
Councillor Foulon to the lantern----"

"And put grass in his mouth, the old animal!" exclaimed Wife Gougeon
with vicious hate.

"The King----" proceeded Jude.

"The Big Hog," shouted a Councillor savagely.

"The Big Hog, then, has had his bristles singed with all this: the
people despise him. Orleans is the people's favourite. What if the
Galley-on-Land should put Orleans on the throne?"

"Good!" cried the Admiral.

The Big Bench broke into excited comment.

"Citizen Jude is admirable." Their leader went on, "Nothing could be
more acceptable than the money of a friend to the people. I tell you,
ragmen, our time has come. There is nothing we cannot try."

"Let us garrott every gendarme."

"They keep well out of our way now, at least when single," another
boasted.

"We don't loot enough houses," a third grumbled. "What is the good of
belonging to the nation?"

"It is the sacred right of the citizen to oppress the oppressor," chimed
Jude.

"Ragmen, you don't know what I mean," vociferated the Admiral sharply.
"We are to be the great men--the Government. I have seen this ever since
our sack of Reveillon's paper-factory. Everything belongs to the
boldest. You will yet see our Big Bench legislators of Paris and me a
Minister of France."

"Bravo; bravo the Admiral!"

The man who last entered, the Versailles beggar, now came to the centre.

"Listen, friends. You know that what I learn at Versailles is worth
something to the Galley-on-Land."

"Invariably," said the Admiral.

"The Big Sow, you know, she they call Madame Veto, has been cursedly
working to keep the Big Hog with the cursed hogs. The people are afraid
of more Dragoons, and are crying, 'The King to Paris!' Well, now, this
is the third of October. Yesterday afternoon the Bodyguard, as they call
them--all fat hogs, mark you--gave a dinner in the theatre to the
Flemish Dragoons. They were so glad to have Flemings to sabre Paris that
the Big Sow came in, and they all spat on the people's cockade, and put
on the White Hog colour, and also a black one, and vowed they were
cocksure of shutting us up. They brought in the Big Hog from his
hunting, and he is in the mess, too. At the end they all followed Madame
Veto home, shouting everything to vex us patriots. _I_ am a _patriot_,"
he added winking. "It is an outrage on the nation. We must go to
Versailles. We must bring the Big Hog into our bosoms, away from the Bad
Hogs. Do you see?"

"I am in it," cried Hache.

"An incomparable scheme," said the Admiral. "Brave Greencaps, don't you
see before you all the swag in the great chateau of Versailles? My God!
it is a pretty scheme--a scheme worthy of a Galley-on-Land."

Even Gougeon seemed to be waked up, and fixed his greedy black eyes on
Motte.

"Citizens," the Admiral continued, addressing Wife Gougeon. "This is
better begun by the women. This morning you will go the Fish-market and
stir the fishwomen up. You must learn the lingo of patriotess. Scream
hard that 'The nation is in danger!' 'Down with the enemies of the
republic!' Talk of 'the excellent citizen,' 'the true patriots,' 'the
good _sans-culottes_.' Be 'filled with sacred vigour' against 'the vile
aristocrats.' We 'work for liberty,' we 'bear the nation in our hearts,'
and 'fulfil a civic duty.' 'Against traitors, perpetual distrust is the
weapon of good citizens,' and 'away with the prejudices of feudalism!'
You can pick up carts-full of the lingo at the Palais Royal."

"I don't understand that bosh," blurted Hache.

"You learn it in two instants, Hache."

"Wait till I tell you another thing, Admiral," Motte interposed. "There
are now twenty thousand ragmen from the provinces encamped on the hills
of Montmartre, fit for everything good. I have been through them, and
when a St. Marcellese holds his nose, you may fancy. Man never saw such
a choice crowd of breechesless. Get _them_ started and go to the women
to-morrow."

"To-morrow, then, let it be. The cries are to be 'Bread' and 'The King
to Paris,' the fishwomen to lead; the Big Bench sign to be the red wool
of '_our Friend Orleans_'; then sack the bakers; then the Hotel de
Ville; then the chateau of Versailles; and death to every black or white
cockade."




CHAPTER XLVII

THE DEFENCE OF THE BODYGUARD


Word passed about at the stately tea _a l'Anglaise_ of the Princess de
Poix that there was danger at the Palace.

"Germain, my knight," whispered Cyrene at the harpsichord, the bright
tears in her eyes, "I must not keep you now. Go to the Queen. It is for
times of peril that descendants of chivalry were born."

Tenderly kissing her hand and saying adieu, Lecour drove to the Palace
and reported for service.

The great Hall of the Guards in the centre of the Palace faces the top
of the Marble Staircase. To the left a landing leads to the Hall of the
King's Guards and thence, to the apartment of the King; to the right
another to the Hall of the Queen's Guards and the chambers of Marie
Antoinette.

The Marble Staircase was approached by the Court of Marble, the smallest
and innermost courtyard of the vast chateau, looked out upon by the
royal apartments and paved with white marble. The exit from this was to
the Royal Court, whence through a grating to the Court of the Ministers,
and thence through the outer grating by the entrance gate to the Place
d'Armes.

Though the season was yet early in October, it was as gloomy and
forbidding a night as one in the worst of November. The darkness and
chill were aggravated by a wearisome drizzle. They were further
aggravated by the discomforts of an anxious situation. About fifty
Bodyguards, lying and sitting under arms in the Hall, were trying to
spend the night, or rather the early hours before dawn, entertaining
each other. They were mainly of the command of the Count de Guiche, then
in its turn of service, but a number among them wore cross-belts of
other companies, for the need had been pressing, and all within reach
had been hastily summoned. The reason for anxiety was a great invasion
of women from Paris on the afternoon of the previous day headed by "a
conqueror of the Bastille." A deputation of twelve of these women were
led to the King, who satisfied and pleased them by his kindness, but the
rest of the crowd, brandishing knives through the railing, accused these
of treachery and tried to hang them. Outside the Palace on the Place
d'Armes the numbers were increased by horde after horde of men marching
from the slums of Paris, armed with pikes, muskets, and hatchets, and
full of drink. After dark many had filled the streets, knocking at the
houses demanding food and money, and terrifying the town. The sentinels,
the Bodyguards, and the Flemish regiment had with difficulty rescued the
women of the deputation, kept the gates and held the mob at bay. They
were jeered at and even fired on, whereat one or two of the Bodyguards
had fired back. The filthy furies, drunken and degraded to an extent of
degradation almost unknown to-day, were especially foul-mouthed
regarding the poor Queen. As for Wife Gougeon, she had stood out on the
very floor of the Assembly, flourished her dagger and screamed "Where
can I find the Austrian?"

At length rain and night brought a certain cessation, and with them
hopes rose. The troops were withdrawn at eight. The main portion of the
Bodyguard were sent to Rambouillet in the vicinity, as they seemed to
excite antagonism among some companies of the National Guard or militia
of Versailles. About twelve in the evening, General Lafayette, of
American fame, came up at the head of the militia of Paris and took
command of the external defences of the chateau.

The mob were still, however, permitted to camp out on the Place d'Armes.

"What are they doing now?" a tired officer of the Bodyguards asked of
another, who had come in and was giving his dripping cloak to one of the
King's lackeys.

"They are mostly asleep, on the Place. It is all over hillocks of rags."

"In the rain?"

"So it seems; it does not wet that sort."

"They must be hungry."

"Not at all. They have each his or her bottle of drink; besides, they
roasted and ate our comrade's horse that they shot by the light of their
bonfire. It was looking on at a cannibal's feast to see them dancing
round it, men and women."

"More so had it been an ass's carcase, perhaps."

"Say a wolf's. If there is a breed of human wolves, I have had it proved
to me to-night. The difference between these and the kind in the
Menagerie is that it is we who are within the bars."

"You need not offer the breed as a novelty; I saw plenty of them at Eaux
Tranquilles."

The speakers were Grancey and Germain. The Baron's face was full of
indignation; Lecour's of platonic contempt.

The door of the Hall of the King's Guards opened, and the sentinels
saluted for a Duke, while the Prince of Luxembourg entered. The Guards
who were awake aroused their comrades. All sprang to their arms and
saluted.

"Gentlemen," said the Prince, "you will be glad to know that his Majesty
has such trust in your faithfulness that he is sleeping as quietly as
usual."

A shout of "Vive le Roi!" arose.

The Prince withdrew. From the opposite door--that of the Hall of the
Queen, now came out Monsieur d'Aguesseau, Mayor of the Guard, who was
making the disposition of sentries.

The contingent, who were still standing, turned to him with looks of
anxiety, and Lecour, as spokesman for the rest, said respectfully--

"How sleeps the Queen?"

"Her Majesty, alas! does not sleep. She starts up continually, haunted
by the foul insults of yesterday and the immense unmerited hatred of the
people of France. What a load for a woman to bear!"

The cry of "Vive la Reine!" which had been ready went forth only as a
low murmur.

"Gentlemen," said d'Aguesseau, "our duty may be grave before long.
General Lafayette has, it is true, assumed the external defence of the
Palace with the National Guard of Paris. At the same time, we must
remember that that Guard are now scattered among the churches of the
town and fast asleep, while the invaders are a countless multitude at
our doors, and we but a handful. On us depend, as on a thread, the lives
of our King and Queen and of all these helpless persons of the
household. Remember, sirs, that your time to die, the soldier's hour of
glory, may now have come."

A shoot of "Vive le Roi!" from every throat was again the response. It
echoed through the windows across the Court of Marble and down the
Great Staircase. It was memorable as the last loyal cry of the household
of Versailles.

"The hour has arrived to change guard," Mayor d'Aguesseau went on. "Will
you, Monsieur de Lincy, take command in the Hall of the Queen?"

D'Aguesseau passed on to inspect the precautions at other points of the
Palace.

No sooner had he left than the men disposed themselves with serious
faces for active work. A sympathetic feeling of devotion displayed
itself. Suddenly Des Huttes, the best voice in the company of Noailles,
struck up solemnly that tender reminiscence from the opera of "Richard
Coeur de Lion"--

    "Oh, Richard, oh my King, the world forsaketh thee,"

and the Bodyguards, overcome with emotion, one and all stood still with
bended heads.

It was then about three o'clock.

In four hours' more the French Monarchy was to fall and the ancient
_regime_ to pass like a dream. The east wind dashed a terrible gust of
rain against the windows and shook their panes like a summons.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, Richard, oh my King, the world forsaketh thee," haunted Germain as
he paced the Hall of the Queen's Guards. Recent political events
connected with the drawing up of a national constitution, and the hunger
of the poor, which they naturally blamed on those in power, had, he
knew, raised deep animosity towards Louis XVI. and the Queen. Her
thoughtless life of gaiety in past days, and the greedy demands of her
friends the Polignacs, had made her particularly the mark of venomous
hate. As d'Aguesseau said, "what a load for a woman to bear!" The
thought raised in Lecour the deepest pity. Opposite him was the door of
the first antechamber, called the Grand Couvert, where had posted
Varicourt, and within it some dozen others. There Varicourt stood,
handsome and elegantly uniformed, at that beautiful door in that fine
hall. Yet behind all this elegance what misery! The Canadian could not
suppress the vision of the tortured Queen starting out of her sleep in
her chamber a few paces away. This suffering woman was in his charge--he
must be loyal to her and lay down his life before hers should be taken.
Well, he had faced death before--it had not yet quite come to that; but
he would be loyal and true. Oh, if he could only cross for a few minutes
to the Noailles mansion and have a word with Cyrene. Was she in danger
too? His heart ached with anxiety.

So the hours of the night passed.

A little before six, while he was resting on a bench and all seemed
quiet, he suddenly heard shouting. He was startled, for it was much
nearer than the Place d'Armes. Yes, there was no doubt of it; he heard a
pistol-shot close by, and at the same time he sprang to his feet. There
was a simultaneous stir in the Great Hall of the Guards, and de
Varicourt, at the entrance to the Queen's antechamber, rapidly drew his
sword. So did du Repaire, sentinel at the door to the Marble Staircase.

Germain ordered Miomandre de Ste. Marie, another faithful Guardsman, who
was posted at the door of the Great Hall, to go down the Marble
Staircase and bring back a report of the trouble.

It afterwards appeared that the two of Lafayette's Paris militiamen
posted at the outer gateway had betrayed their trust and let in the mob
of viragoes and armed brigands who pressed for admittance early in the
morning. Now commenced a season of terror in the Palace.

No sooner had Miomandre reached the head of the staircase, and Lecour
looked after him out of the open door, than they both saw the court
below alive with a lashing ocean of pikes and furious faces.

The two Swiss sentinels who kept the foot of the staircase had managed
to check the rush, and for a moment the brigands checked themselves to
get each a hack at an object they had thrown down. Lecour saw instantly
that this object was a man--a Bodyguard--who, as with a tremendous
effort he threw off his assailants and stood up, the streams of blood
pouring over his face, he recognised as poor Des Huttes. Germain's first
impulse was to bound down the steps to his rescue--but discipline did
its work and checked him. Should he leave his post, what would become of
the Queen? Des Huttes during the moment of this quick reflection, was
brained from behind by a man in a red cap, and fell, pierced with
countless pike-wounds. His eyes still moved when the rag-picker Gougeon
ran in, and, placing his foot on the chest, chopped the head from the
body with blows of an axe. In an instant it was stuck on the point of a
pike and triumphantly carried away.

Lecour, his brain on fire, drew back and steadied himself to retain
presence of mind.

An instant after he could hear the roar of the mob as it surged up and
the voice of Miomandre shouting to them, "My friends, you love your
King."

They rushed on Miomandre and tried to kill him as they had done Des
Huttes; but he was quick, and springing to the embrasure of a window,
defended himself, while the yelling booty-seekers, athirst for
easier-seized treasures, turned to press forward into the apartment of
the Queen. The attack came quickly, but Germain shut the door in time
and locked it, and thanks to the perfect make of the lock its bolt held
out against the onset. That could not long be, however, as he knew the
panels must give way before their axes.

"Stand firm, du Repaire!" he cried, and ran across the hall to where de
Varicourt was guarding the door of the Queen's antechamber. Before
passing in, he grasped the hand of the devoted Bodyguard, who understood
that his hour had come, crossed himself, and answered with a look of
unalterable devotion.

Germain closed the door of the antechamber lovingly and regretfully,
locked and bolted it.

The howling pack were but a few minutes in breaking in. He could hear
their shouts of triumph and the shameless cries of the women against
Marie Antoinette.

Astonished at finding themselves in the inside of the Palace, the first
comers were dumbfounded, but a red-nosed beggar in a red cap immediately
sprang towards de Varicourt, shouting, "This way to the Austrian!"

"Vive la Nation!" roared men who were looting the tapestry from the
benches.

"Death to the Sow!" was the shriek of Wife Gougeon.

"Death to the aristocrat!" shouted the Admiral with a devilish laugh,
leading the rush on de Varicourt.

The latter defended himself with all his strength, first with his
clubbed musket, then with his sword. For some seconds he kept the
murderers at bay, and it seemed to du Repaire, looking eagerly across
the hall, that after all the impossible might be accomplished, and the
valour of his comrade stem the accursed horde. To no purpose. As he
turned like lightning to deliver a thrust to the left, a blow from a
billhook on the right crushed his skull; he dropped, and his bleeding
body was instantly robbed and dragged out to the Place d'Armes.

Meanwhile du Repaire, inspired by the heroic conduct of de Varicourt,
took advantage of the momentary diversion to slip across and occupy his
fallen comrade's post. The assailants, some of the boldest of whom had
suffered from de Varicourt's sword, were astonished and daunted by the
sight of another Bodyguard in the same place.

"_Canaille!_ we know how to die!" he cried, and stood ready to strike
the first on-comer.

"So do we!" cried the Admiral, and struck at him, but tripped and was
pulled back.

"Save yourself, du Repaire, if you can," commanded Germain from within
the door.

Seizing the moment's confusion, du Repaire sprang through the weakest
part of the semicircle around him, and scattering the tramps in the rest
of the hall before him, reached the door of the Great Hall of the Guards
opposite, not without several wounds. The door was fortunately opened
and Grancey, who opened it, emptied his pistol into the foremost pursuer
and killed him, obtaining time to lock and bolt again.

The crowning instance of the spirit of the Bodyguard was now given.
Miomandre de Ste Marie, who had sheltered himself from the first rush of
the mob in the window embrasure at the head of the staircase, seeing the
crowd rush after du Repaire, and not knowing of the command to abandon
the post, sped over and stationed himself in the same position.
Meanwhile, during the few minutes in which all this took place, Germain
had opened the door of the Queen's drawing-room and said quietly to a
lady of honour, "Save the Queen; they want to kill her." The ladies of
honour bolted the drawing-room door, hurried to the Queen, hastily
dressed her, opened a secret door in a panel near her bed, and hurried
her by a passage to the chamber of the King.

Miomandre, meanwhile, was attacked like Varicourt and du Repaire.
Knocked down from behind with the butt of a musket, he would have been
despatched but for the scramble of the Galley men to rob his body of his
watch, and by the diversion of the rage of the crowd against his
companions shut in the Great Hall.

While Ste Marie lay insensible, those in the Great Hall were actively
piling up benches against the door and removing the stacks of arms to
the Oeil de Boeuf, which adjoined it, and where they proposed to make
their next stand in the way to the apartments of the King. The Count of
Guiche and the Prince of Luxembourg worked like the rest, and just as
the door crashed through the last of the weapons were brought into the
Oeil de Boeuf and its entrance closed. The Hall of the Courtiers seemed
to receive the unusual invasion with the inperturbability of a courtier.
One scene of bustling life appeared to suit it as well as another, even
though death were so near to follow. The little reserve were drawn up in
order, determined to fight it out there together.

And now a long, low sound was heard in the distance. It approached, and
as it grew the shouts of rage in the Great Hall ceased, and a roar of
scuttling feet was heard. Lafayette's National Guard were approaching,
and as the serried lines, advancing at the double, reached the Court of
Marble, their drum-beats suddenly burst into a thunderous roll, and the
Court, the staircase, and the halls were cleared of the cowardly rabble.

Such was the glorious defence of the Bodyguard. And so the Queen was
saved.

The Queen was saved; the King was saved; the household was saved--at
least for the present--but the monarchy was lost.

His Majesty left Versailles at one o'clock. The Queen, the Dauphin,
Madame Royale, Monsieur, Madame Elizabeth, the King's sister and Madame
de Tourzel, governess of the children of France, were in his Majesty's
carriage.

A hundred deputies of the Assembly in their carriages came next. The
advance guard, which was formed of a detachment of the brigands, set out
two hours earlier. In front of them Hache and Motte danced in triumph,
carrying the pallid heads of Des Huttes and de Varicourt aloft on their
pikes.

They stopped a moment at Sevres in front of the shop of an unfortunate
hairdresser. They caught hold of the latter and forced him to dress the
gory heads; a task which made the poor man a hopeless maniac the same
evening.

The bulk of the Paris National Guard followed them closely. The King's
carriage was preceded by Wife Gougeon and the fishwomen and a rabble of
prostitutes, the vile refuse of their sex, all raving with fury and
wine.

Several rode astride upon cannon, boasting in the most horrible songs of
the crimes they had committed themselves or seen others commit. Those
who were nearest the carriage sang ballads, the allusions in which, by
means of their gestures, they applied to the Queen. In the paroxysms of
their drunken merriment these women stopped passengers, and pointing to
the carriage, howled in their ears, "Cheer up, friends, we shall no
longer be in want of bread; we bring the baker, the baker's wife, and
the baker's boy."

They pointed to waggons which followed, full of corn and flour, which
had been brought into Versailles, and formed a train, escorted by
Grenadiers and surrounded by women and bullies, some armed with pikes
and some carrying long branches of poplar. This favourite part of the
_cortege_ looked at some distance like a moving grove, amidst which
shone pike-heads and gun-barrels. Above and in front of the motley
procession which accompanied them, mounted high on one of the waggons,
rode Death himself, so the spectators thought, grinning, triumphing, and
directing the whole, in the shape of the skull-like countenance of the
Admiral of the Galley-on-Land.

Behind his Majesty's carriage were the remnant of the Bodyguard, some on
foot and some on horseback, most of them uncovered, all unarmed, and
worn out with hunger and fatigue. The Dragoons, the Flanders regiment,
the Hundred Swiss and the National Guards, preceded, accompanied, or
followed the file of carriages.

Lecour, weak with the night's anxiety and the frightful disappointment
of the day, had scarcely strength to drag himself along between two
Grenadiers, who from time to time supported him, and one of whose great
hairy caps he wore as a token of fraternity. All at once hell seemed to
have risen about him. He heard a united yell from many savage throats,
and saw a ring of red-capped brutes lunging and striking at himself, and
a little woman-fiend sprang at his breast and buried something sharp in
it.

The last thing of which he was conscious was the satanic revengefulness
of her eyes.




CHAPTER XLVIII

SISTERS DEATH AND TRUTH


At a second-story window, in an unpretentious part of the Rue St.
Honore--known just then as the Rue Honore, for the saints had been
abolished, together with the terrestrial aristocracy--a young woman was
sitting one late July afternoon employed in sewing. She was pale, thin,
and poorly clad. Her fingers were very nervous as she hurried on with
her work.

For three years the surges of the Revolutionary deluge had succeeded one
another with ever-increasing rapidity, and at last threatened to swallow
the entire inhabitants of the city. "The generation which saw the
monarchical _regime_ will always regret it," Robespierre was crying,
"therefore every individual who was more than fifteen years old in 1789
should have his throat cut." "Away with the nobles!" was shouting
another vicious leader, "and if there are any good ones so much the
worse for them. Let the guillotine work incessantly through the whole
Republic. France has nineteen millions too many inhabitants, she will
have enough with five." "Milk is the nourishment of infants," announced
another; "blood is that of the children of liberty."

The new doctrine was not merely being shouted; it was being carried into
practice as fast as the executioner could work, and sometimes in a
single afternoon the life-stream of two hundred hearts gushed out
through two hundred severed necks on the Place de la Revolution. The
King, and at last the Queen, were among the slaughtered. None knew but
that his or her turn, or that of his dearest ones might come next. A too
respectable dress, a thoughtless expression, the malice of an
extortionate workman, or the offending of a servant, meant death. Even
the wickedest were betrayed by their associates to the Goddess of Blood,
and citizens, as they hurried along the deserted and filthy streets,
looked at each other with suspicious eyes. On the throne of France's
ancient sovereigns sat a shadowy monarch from hell, and all recognised
his name and reign--The Reign of Terror.

In the midst of that thunder-fraught atmosphere sat this poor girl,
mechanically glancing down the street from time to time at the silent
houses, each with the legal paper affixed stating the names of the
inmates, for the information of the revolutionary committees.

Her bearing, though humble, announced her as one of the hated class, and
by scrutinising her thin features we see that she is "the Citizeness
Montmorency, heretofore Baroness."

She was absorbed in thought. Recollections, one by one, of the changes
which had made her an old woman in experience at the age when most
maidens become brides, were crossing her mind. She recalled the alarming
news brought to the Hotel de Noailles of the march of the viragoes on
Versailles, and with that news her suspense for the safety of Germain;
the entry of General Lafayette (who was married to a Noailles) into the
hotel towards morning, smilingly assuring the family that all was well;
her agony upon word of the attack on the royal apartments; the deadly
illness of Germain at the Hotel-Dieu Hospital, whither some National
Guards had taken him; the pauper bed and gown in which the Sisters of
the Hospital kept him hidden from the roused populace who searched the
wards for him; her own assumption of the humble dress of a servitor to
nurse him; his pretended death and burial by substitute; his long
delirium, her joy at his return to life; his gratitude and
convalescence; the forced dispersal of the Sisters, and with it her
removal of her charge to the half-deserted Hotel de Poix; the mob
sacking mansion after mansion around them and their inexplicable
exemption; an anonymous warning at length to flee, and the subterfuges
of Dominique to cover their removal to the present house.

She thought also of the faithfulness of Germain to the King throughout
his misfortunes, and how in order to be ready for service in case of a
royalist opportunity, he had refused even her own entreaties to flee.

And sewing on and looking with habitual apprehension down the street,
she thought of the blanks in the old circle--sadly, but without tears,
for she had grown beyond tears over memories, so often had she been
called to shed them for events.

With sorrowful recollection she saw again her good friend, Helene de
Merecourt, and her own sister Jeanne, disappear out of life.

There was that terrible day when the King was beheaded, and that other
when the Queen followed him; Bellecour, d'Amoreau, the Canoness,
Vaudreuil, the Guiches, the Polignacs, were in exile. Others were
concealed, scattered, outlawed, some perhaps included in the massacres;
some perhaps lost among the immense number crowded into the seventy
prisons of the City. When would _her_ turn arrive? When Germain's?

A distant sound made her lips part in alarm. It was the too well-known
surging murmur of a mob approaching. She hastily rose and closed the
window. The Rue Honore was one of the highways particularly exposed to
persecution, for its chief portion was lined with mansions where dwelt
many of the "aristocrats." The great _porte cochere_ and street wall of
one were in full view of her window, coated with insulting placards and
painted in huge letters, "NATIONAL PROPERTY--Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity." How far the property had become national may be inferred
from the fact that the patriot commissioner who took its chattels into
his charge, and whose name was signed with a mark at the bottom of the
placard, was--Gougeon.

In this quiet part of the street, however, the smaller houses usually
passed unscathed, and the neighbourhood had the advantage of its
residents not being so prying as in quarters still poorer. So that by
aid of some bribery of patriots of the section, discreetly done by
Dominique, their slender stores of money had thus far seemed to suffice
to obtain them immunity. We say seemed to suffice, because there was
something very remarkable, after all, in the escape of a Montmorency,
and particularly one so intimate with the obnoxious Marechale de
Noailles.

The mob of women and red-capped men swarmed up the street, led by a
drum, and singing "Ca ira"--

    "Ah, on it goes, and on it goes, and on it goes!--
      The aristocrats to the lantern!
    Ah, on it goes, and on it goes, and on it goes!--
      The aristocrats, we'll hang them."

In front of the confiscated hotel the _Sans-culottes_ stopped, and,
joining hands in a circle, whirled around in the wild Revolutionary
dance, "the Carmagnole," singing the words--

      "Madame Veto had pledged her word,
      _Madame Veto had pledged her word_
      To put all Paris to the sword,
      _To put all Paris to the sword_,
        But we all missed our biers
        Thanks to our canoneers.
        Dance, dance the Carmagnole,
          Hurrah for the sound,
          _Hurrah for the sound_,
        Dance, dance the Carmagnole,
    Hurrah for the sound of the cannon!"

She watched the dancers, involuntarily fascinated. All at once an object
tapped against the window, and she noticed many eyes turned up to her in
malicious amusement. The object was pushed up to her on a long pole and
again tapped on the window; she dropped her sewing and sprang back with
a scream. It was a human hand. A shout of coarse laughter met her ears,
and the hand was withdrawn. She sank back in her chair and burst into
tears.

"Wretches!" cried a woman, darting forward from behind her and shaking a
fist at the window.

"Oh, be careful," Cyrene gasped, pulling back the arm. "Have they seen
you?"

"I fear so," was the answer, as dismayed as her question; and a number
of blows and thrusts sounded against the door below. But it was only a
momentary diversion; the crowd had work cut out for it somewhere else
and the drum drew them onwards.

"Oh, Germain," she said hysterically, "why do you risk your life so?"

"Because it is worthless," replied the apparent woman, pulling off his
hood and throwing aside the rest of his disguise. But I am a fool to
endanger you that way. Oh my darling, you who saved my life, is it not
rather to comfort you at times like this that I live?" and he knelt and
kissed her hand.

"Dearest," she answered softly, "you make my life happy in the very
midst of horrors."

"I am unworthy of your love," he returned mournfully, rising to his
feet.

"You say that too often; but have not the old reasons lost their force?
Even here we could make a home. Let us defer our marriage no longer."

"We cannot marry," he said slowly.

She thought he spoke of the prohibition of Christian rites by the law,
and said--"But Dominique knows of a priest, who is hidden in a cellar at
his cousin's."

He shook his head and she read a soul of infinite sorrow in his eyes as
they rested on her face.

"It is the thought of his own death," was the interpretation that
flashed upon her.

A rap was heard.

"Come in, Dominique," said he.

The list of inmates affixed to the front of the house would have
explained Germain's disguise. It read--

"The Citizen Dominique Levesque, boarding-house keeper.

"_The Citizeness Marie Levesque, his wife._

"The Citizeness Montmorency, sempstress."

"Citizeness Levesque" was sometimes observed about the house by the
neighbours, but the family, like many others, cultivated no intercourse.
Wearing the garb only whenever absolutely necessary, he took part each
day in whatever work was obtained to support the household, and at night
went out to keep track of what was happening.

At the time of the guillotining of the Queen, he was restrained with
difficulty from throwing his life away in an insane rush upon the
murderers.

"My Lady Baroness," Dominique said, clinging to all the old delicate
form of his respect--for the faithful servitor was as chivalrous as any
knight--"I regret to report that there is a new law compelling everybody
to take out cards of civism, as they call them, at the Hotel de Ville.
During the trouble at our door a few moments ago, some of the
_Sans-culottes_ threatened to return. I consider it absolutely necessary
that Madame and I should go at once and obtain these credentials."

"Is there no way of getting them without Madame? It looks to me
dangerous," Lecour said.

"The demand must be made in person, Monsieur le Chevalier. I have
thought that question over very carefully."

"If is the most dangerous thing yet."

"I do not conceal the risk, Monsieur."

"Dear Dominique," Cyrene put in firmly, "I am ready to do all you say."

"Yes, our more than parent," Lecour added in tears, "she is ready to
trust her life in your hands," and going over to Dominique he put his
arm upon his shoulder and kissed him.

The old man's lip trembled and he withdrew, and at the same time Cyrene
also left the chamber to prepare for the ordeal.

Then did Germain fully realise the sharpness of dread. She whom he loved
was in the direst peril. He saw the gulf which had swallowed so many
others yawning for her life, and he trembled as he had never trembled
before. It must be said for him that he had always valued his own life
little and had been willing to risk it for another on more occasions
than one. It was when not he but his heart's beloved was in such danger
that his eyes were opened to the greatness of the fact of death.
Moreover he felt that he was helpless to lessen the peril. For him to
accompany her to the Hotel de Ville was to make her fate absolutely
certain. That charge must be left to Dominique, and--God!

God! He had not dared to think of God for years; yet now the Divine Face
appeared through the dissolving vision of things mortal, and he suddenly
saw it looming dim and awful as the one changeless Reality.

Her step sounded returning and he composed himself. Both tried to be
brave. Both were thinking of the other's happiness.

"Have no anxieties, my dear one," she exclaimed, coming close to him,
her eyes moistened and voice trembling slightly, "I have our good
Dominique to take care of me, and we shall soon return."

"I do not doubt it," he replied as cheerily as he was able, bending and
gently kissing her forehead. "Prudence and Courage!--all shall go
rightly."

But at the touch of his lips she started, threw her arms around his neck
and passionately drew him to her.

"And what, my beloved, if it should _not_ go rightly?--what for you to
be left behind?"

"Darling, darling, do not say it," he cried, fervently returning her
embraces. "All must and will go rightly. We cannot live without each
other. Trust in Providence."

Ah, what those words meant for him!

"I do," she murmured, "but would that Dominique's priest were here. I
long for the eternal union of our souls."

He pressed her to his breast in great emotion, then loosed his arms and
stood looking sorrowfully at her again, as for the last time.

"_Au revoir_," she whispered, her eyes intensely searching into his.

"_Au revoir, ma chere_," he answered, mastering his voice with all his
strength.

Then she and Dominique left the house.




CHAPTER XLIX

CIVIC VIRTUE


Dominique and the citizeness proceeded as unobtrusively as they could
along the Rue Honore. He hurried her past the Rue Florentin, down which
he knew, without looking, was to be seen the tall machine of execution
on the Place de la Revolution.

At first they passed few people, but on approaching the centre of the
City they saw numbers in front of the _cafes_ and even going to the
theatre. Flashy carriages of thievish men who had enriched themselves
under the new conditions, rolled frequently by. The basis of their
power, the squalid element with jealous, insolent eyes, also increased
on the pavements.

At the Rue de la Monnaie they turned towards the Quays. Just as they
were turning, a young woman, whose head was covered with a shawl, glided
from a gateway and addressed them.

They both started suspiciously, but the poor creature proved to be only
seeking charity, and Cyrene, struck by a certain desperation in her
tone, turned to give her a couple of _sous_. In passing the coins their
eyes met, and the mendicant started.

"Great God! Madame Baroness, you do not know me?"

The voice, though altered in quality, recalled other times. Her features
became recognisable, and the identity of their owner came over Cyrene.

"Mademoiselle de Richeval!" she gasped.

The sprightly companion of princesses was begging her bread. Her wit and
beauty had disappeared, the once bright eyes were sharp, the once
blooming cheeks were wrinkled and shrunk.

"Ladies, remember the spies," said Dominique.

"Go to our house, my dear," Cyrene whispered hastily. "It is No. 409,
Rue Honore, you will get supper there, and await us."

"409, Rue Honore," the other repeated, and hastened to the promised
food.

Continuing, the two reached the Hotel de Ville at seven o'clock. Though
early, the spacious building was lighted from attic to basement, and
slipping in through a swarm of _Sans-culottes_ who surrounded the
doorsteps, they entered the great hall. As they were going in the
"Marseillaise" began to be pounded, and the entry, from the opposite
direction, of persons of much more importance than they, attracted the
eyes of the men and women who smoked and knitted round the hall. The
incomers were the President and heads of the Commune of Paris, each
arrayed in his tricolor _carmagnole_, red bonnet, and great sabre.

The President was the Admiral. His glittering eyes swept the chamber,
and singling out Cyrene as by premeditation, rested upon her face. He
was unknown to her, but at his smile she shuddered.

These exalted personages--robbers, murderers, tavern-keepers,
kettle-menders--sat down on their raised tribune, while Cyrene and
Dominique were pushed by the guards into some rows of benches in front
of but not facing them. The individuals on these benches were as yet
few, and Cyrene looked apprehensively around the place, while Dominique
took mental notes. They saw, forming the sides of the hall, two
amphitheatres filled with Jacobin women knitting, patching trousers or
waistcoats, and watching the benches of supplicants for the cards of
civism, and made remarks to one another aloud.

"That one's not _Sans-culotte_ enough for me," called out a young woman
in a red bonnet, and crossing over with the stride of a Grenadier to
Cyrene, stood before her, arms akimbo, and cried shrilly, "Saint
Guillotine for your patron, my delicate Ma'mselle."

The use of the prescribed address "ma'mselle" was evidently regarded as
a witticism, for shouts of laughter filled the place.

Just then the President rang his bell, and as he did so he looked at
Cyrene significantly. Shrink as she might from his leer, she could not
but feel grateful, for he had evidently rung purposely.

A secretary began the minutes, which consisted of resolutions of Jacobin
joy at the capture of a once idolised patriot who had lately been
denounced by Robespierre for counselling mercy to prisoners.

The name of Robespierre excited enthusiastic applause.

A set of benches facing those of the applicants had stood thus far
empty. They were now filled by the entry of a body of representatives
furnished by certain of the forty-eight sections of the City, whereupon
the "Marseillaise" was again beat, and several of the councillors lit
their pipes.

The principal sections represented were those of the Pikes and the
Fish-market.

Some one called for "Ca ira." It was succeeded by a harangue of the
Admiral against the captured ex-patriot. Cyrene followed with horror
every word of his oratory, every movement of his declamation, the air of
pride with which he played upon the passions of the _Sans-culottes_,
and the wicked sweep of the principles he announced.

"That all mankind deserve massacre," he cried, smiling, "is the
philosophic general rule; the sole exceptions are the true patriots. By
title of liberty, the possessions of all belong to them alone. And how
can we know the true patriot? _By his red cap and his red hand._"

Finally the long suspense of the applicants was brought to a close; the
secretary called the first on the list.

"Citizeness Montmorency."

At the once great name a silence fell over the place.

Then a murmur ran through the benches of the Jacobin women, while Cyrene
summoned her courage. The murmur was not long in taking shape.

"The Montmorencys are a brood of monsters," energetically called the
young Jacobiness, rising in her place.

"The aristocrat to the guillotine!" shouted a drunken man.

"The guillotine!"

"Yes, yes--to La Force immediately!"

These and similar cries resounded. They fell upon Cyrene's ears like
thunders of hostile artillery in a battle. Dominique sat quite still.
His mistress rose. Now that the instant of danger had actually come she
felt an inconquerable courage well up in her, which, as she stood with
brilliant eye and glowing cheek, made her very beautiful. This was not
in her favour with the envious knitters; but while they commented in
frightful language on her gentle build, the secretary said--"Are you the
person?"

"I am," she answered clearly.

"Are you not," he continued glancing at the audience for approbation,
"the late aristocrat Baroness of that name?"

"I am," she replied, in a tone still clearer and more fearless.

The President's face gleamed with admiration. He rang his bell sharply
and the clamours subsided. His glittering eyes devoured her features,
while he said--

"Does anybody know the citizeness and answer for her civism?" He
hurriedly added, "Adjourned; call the next."

Dominique caught her by the arm to make their exit, for though he could
not assign a reason for the Admiral's device of favour, he was ready to
take advantage of it.

As they started, one of the section members sprang up and exclaimed--

"I answer for the citizeness."

He was a man of less than thirty, and of open, enthusiastic expression,
and wore the uniform of a National Guard.

"You, citizen la Tour?" the Admiral exclaimed.

Cyrene eyed the member in grateful but intense wonder. She had never to
her knowledge seen him before.

"Yes, citizen President," he replied earnestly, "I answer for the
citizeness because she saved my life."

The crowd hushed by a common impulse.

"You all know me, brothers," he cried, "my record for the Revolution, my
passion for liberty--Liberty, Liberty, Liberty! It has been my dream
under the stars, my labour under the sun, my love and my desire. I was,
as all know, a patriot proscribed and condemned to death before the
Revolution began. I was of the first at the hanging of Foulon, at the
sacking of Reveillon, and at the walls of the Bastille. I was wounded in
the stand against the Dragoons of Lambesc, and all know my scars in the
battles of the North. I name these things only to prove the claim of
this woman to civic rights. By her pity she saved my life in the old
days, at the last moment before my breaking on the wheel. Imagine to
yourselves that moment. Ask how I can feel other than gratitude and
devotion to my benefactress. In the evil days of the aristocrats she was
a friend of the poor. I present her now to you when it is in our power
to confer liberty upon her who set at liberty, life upon her who saved
life. I, the child of the Revolution, pray this as my right; she claims
it also for herself as a heroine of civic virtue. Give your suffrages."

"Vive la Tour! vive the citizeness!" resounded in shouts through the
hall. Once more the Admiral rang his bell, and silenced followed.

"Yes, citizeness," he said, addressing her, "your courage is French
courage, your virtue French virtue, and the good heart of the nation
sees in you a daughter of the people. Incarnating the spirit of the
race, be welcome at the tables of fraternity, and accept the homage of
all hearts."

At a motion of his hand the secretary hastily filled in her certificate,
and Dominique, without waiting for his own, hurried her away. Even as
they left they heard Wife Gougeon scream--

"Death to the aristocrat!"

They hastened across the Place de Greve, but had not yet reached the
corner of the street beyond, when in the dusk Cyrene heard the sound of
rushing wheels, felt herself choked by a gag from behind, and was pushed
helpless by rough hands into a coach and driven away. Behind her she
heard a sound of scuffle and the voice of Dominique cry aloud in
anguish--

"They have finished me!"

"Be quiet, my lady," spoke the voice of Abbe Jude.

She knew no more till she woke in darkness.




CHAPTER L

JUDGMENT DAY


Germain, left alone in the house, bolted the door, returned with
trembling limbs to the room above and threw himself down in his chair
blanched and nerveless. They who have experienced the minutes when a
well-loved one hangs between life and death can alone know what he
suffered. It was now that the fleeting poverty of the ideals he had been
following became visible. The elegance, the pride, the historic glamour,
the fine breeding of the Old _Regime_, by which he had been fascinated,
had they not fallen to pieces like a flower whose petals are scattered
in the tempest? Even the burning hope of his heart, the dream of a life
of earthly bliss with his love, was showing its insecurity and dropping
asunder. His ship was sinking in the ocean of Eternity. How futile his
intrigue, how mean his deceptions, how insufficient his excuses. The
Everlasting Presence gazed through them, and in its all-illumining blaze
they fell and sank away. He saw that that which underlies life and death
and all that is, is a living Conscience, to which all must perforce
conform. Pride, deception, selfishness, uncontrol of passion, the taking
of that which was not his, and the injuring of honourable men--these
excrescences he saw upon his soul, and that without their surgery it
would never be divine. He remembered the prophetic warning of his
father that "Eternal Justice calls us to exact account"; and the
pertinacity of Retribution in the matter of the Golden Dog. He saw that
the justice of this life and the next are one, and are absolutely
complete in their demands. One great conclusion came to him with
overwhelming force; he saw that it was the plan of Heaven that _no man
must profit by any fruit of his wrong_. He now himself must meet that
justice and make that retribution.

At length, leaving the room, he dragged himself up the stair leading to
his own chamber, a cramped place in the flat above, bearing small
resemblance to his luxurious apartments of former days; yet around it
were hung the de Lincy family portraits; his sword of the Bodyguard lay
on the mantel; and in the space behind the door were the old Chevalier's
iron-bound muniment-chest and his own little portmanteau gilded with his
arms.

With fevered face and icy hands he opened the latter and sought out the
packet of his proofs of _noblesse_. Then turning to the fireplace
beneath the mantel, he threw the papers one by one into it--his
falsified birth-certificate, his father's altered marriage-contract, the
letter of the gentlemen of Montreal, the apology of Councillor de Lery,
the will of the Chevalier de Lincy and the attestation of the
Genealogist of France. He took a flint and steel from the mantel and
quickly struck spark after spark into them until they sprang into
flames. Then he added his great genealogical tree of the de Lincys,
whose branches withered and quivered, like his heart, as the fire
attacked the broad folds of the parchment. Packet after packet the
precious archives of the Lecours de Lincy went upon the pile until he
had emptied the muniment-chest; the fire raged and reddened into a solid
mass, and they were irrevocably gone. Next he took up de Bailleul's
will--sorrowfully and hesitatingly, for it was his title to Eaux
Tranquilles--but the following instant he threw it also on the flames.
Then he deliberately cast in his Grand Cross of St. Louis and the
insignia of the Order of the Holy Ghost. His _Diamond Armorial_
followed, he tore his seal, cut with the pretended coat-of-arms, from
his watch-chain, broke up with his foot his little portmanteau, and
tearing down the de Lincy portraits one by one watched all blaze up and
consume together. At last, on the top of the heap, he mournfully laid
his sword of the Bodyguard and saw its golden handle and delicate blade
begin to glow and discolour.

"Disappear, old dreams;" he murmured, "Eternal Justice visit me for all!
But afflict not _her_; spare thine angel for her own sake. Oh, spare
_her_."

One packet remained, which he had intentionally not destroyed. When the
fire settled down a little he took a strong paper and cord, wrapped and
sealed it, and addressed it for mailing as follows--

+--------------------------------------------+
|  RECORD OF PROOFS AGAINST G. LECOUR,       |
|  THE PROPERTY OF MONSIEUR LOUIS R. C.      |
|              DE LERY,                      |
|                                            |
|    _Late Bodyguard of the King of France_, |
|                                            |
|             AT QUEBEC                      |
|             IN CANADA.                     |
+--------------------------------------------+

Humbly he descended the stair once more, and placing the package on the
table of the sitting-room, sank again feverishly into his chair,
prepared to confess all should Cyrene safely return.

A knocking sounded in the lower part of the house. He went to the door;
the wicket showed a beggar woman, but on Mademoiselle Richeval
mentioning her name he recognised her and let her in. His mind was so
absorbed that he felt no surprise. As food was what she wanted he set
before her everything in their little larder; and while she was eating
like one famished he forgot her presence completely. The two once so
sociable persons were for a while dumb to each other.

At length, however, having satisfied her ravenous hunger, she commenced
to speak of the changes which the Revolution had brought to them and to
wonder at his strange want of interest, when the noise of a mob crowding
around the door was heard.

Lecour saw what might happen.

"Fly, Mademoiselle," he said; "in the courtyard there is a door on the
left, take it and pass into the next house where are good people who
will not abandon you. I must stay here."

He then went to the door at which pikes and gun-stocks were beating.

"Citizens, I am the only person in the house," said he, at an opening
they had broken in one of the panels. "What do you wish?"

For answer several pikes were thrown in; he stepped back beyond their
reach, calmly fronting the fierce faces.

"Tell me what you want. I am ready to do your will."

There was a short period of indecision outside. A muscular man in a
carmagnole swinging a formidable axe pushed forward and the others fell
back at his rough order.

"I arrest you, citizen Repentigny," said Hache, for it was he. "We mates
of Bec and Caron that you quartered have had it in for you for a long
time. I am a commissioner now, and they call this my domiciliary visit.
If you will come, I will see, on the faith of a brigand, that you get to
prison safely; if not, I will see that you don't. Do you come?"

Germain calculated the seconds he had been able to save for Mademoiselle
Richeval. They were ample.

He opened the door and gave himself up.




CHAPTER LI

LOVE ENDURETH ALL THINGS


Cyrene, when she found herself in darkness, had a confused idea that she
was waking from a dream and lying in her bed at the house in the Rue
Honore. Under that impression she drew a breath of relief. A curse from
a woman's voice somewhere near by made her realise the truth; the cry of
Dominique, "They have finished me!" and the circumstances of his
disappearance from her side returned vividly, and her heart sickened.
But misery is like a thermometer; after reaching a particular degree it
can fall but slightly lower. The death of Dominique only benumbed her
brain. Her next impression was that this place in which she lay must be
a dungeon, and as her eyes could make out nothing whatever in the
darkness she concluded that the woman she heard must be a prisoner in an
adjoining cell.

In a short time a stealthy step approached. It stopped, a wooden door
swung back, and a band of greyish light showed a low room of rough beams
without a window. At the door Wife Gougeon peered in, and behind her was
the cheerless perspective of the shop, additionally cheerless in the
grey of early morning.

"Well, wench, how do you like being a _Sans-culotte_? You slept too soft
in the Old _Regime_."

Cyrene had not noticed how she had been sleeping; she now saw that her
bed was a pile of straw on a box.

"Get up, you sow, and sweep my floor!" exclaimed the ragman's wife. "Get
up!"

Cyrene's first instinct was to lie still in tacit disdain. The
recollection of Germain, however, crossed her mind. Rather submit to
anything than exasperate his enemies; so she rose, with an effort. Her
limbs felt heavy.

"Out now, take this broom, you sot, and sweep the floor."

Cyrene came out and proceeded to brush aside the dust between the piles
of metal. Wife Gougeon sat back on a block of wood and laughed, in
immense enjoyment.

"So you were a baroness once, one of the heretofores? Well, I like
baronesses to do my dirty work for me and Montmorencys for my sweeps.
You never thought the people would arrive at this, eh? You thought, you
aristocrats, that you could have the fine houses and we could do all the
scullery work. How do you like it? Oh, I have dirtier work than that
that I will make you do. This is only the commencement. Sweep that board
clean, you pig!"

The woman fumed at Cyrene's silence.

"Have you no tongue, animal? Why don't you answer when I speak? I'll
teach you," and, her eyes glittering, she picked up an iron bolt and
threw it at her victim. It struck Cyrene's arm, bruising it severely.
The girl winced, but continued wielding the broom as meekly as before.

"Ah," went on Wife Gougeon, "do you know what I will do with you? I will
have your head sliced off. What nice necks you 'heretofores' have. I've
seen many a one chopped through."

"Hush, hush, dear citizeness Gougeon," said the Abbe, appearing near
by. "I brought the citizeness to you for protection; I wish to speak to
her apart--say in the chamber there."

Cyrene looked at him in sorrowful relief.

"Citizeness," he said, making the greatest effort at ingratiation, "I
have a few things to speak to you. You will excuse us, citizeness
Gougeon?"

"Republicans do not excuse and excuse like you 'heretofores.' If it were
not for the Galley, I would slice your neck to-morrow too. Go, and be
quick about it, Blacklegs, while I wait to see her sweep for me again."

Cyrene staggered after him in her weakness into her chamber again, and,
while she sat upon her pallet, he shut the door, took a candle down from
a beam, and lit it.

"Do not mind her," he said while doing so. "She is a Jacobiness."

She looked at him as closely as her fevered sight permitted, and saw
that he was shivering with excitement and his long face and downcast
eyes contorting.

She sat speechless, unable to comprehend him.

"Madame Baroness," said he, "have you never wondered at your long escape
from the perils of these times? When the mansions of others were burned,
your house has been free from molestation; when their goods were
appropriated by the nation, yours have been left intact; when all
aristocrats have been sent to the guillotine, you have slept in safety.
Have you not thought this strange?"

The questioning seemed to be lost upon her, except for a nod.

"Did you never," he went on, "suspect that some power was protecting
you, and ask by whose influence you were thus surrounded and your peace
secured? Did you never recognise a faithfulness which relaxed at no
moment, a care which was unlimited--in a word, a secret friend at the
source of affairs? Madame, I was that friend."

He stopped and looked at her, his increasing excitement overcoming his
stealth. She was moved, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

"I am grateful, Abbe Jude; let me say it from my heart. You have been
wronged by us. We believed you were different."

At the tribute his eager look intensified itself into a piercing gaze
which made her feel dread of him.

"Yes, I was that secret friend," he cried. "It was I who protected you
at the sections, I struck your name from the lists of proscriptions, I
diverted the marches of the patriots from your portals. Do you think all
this would be done for three years without true faithfulness?"

"You have indeed proved yourself a loyal friend."

"More than that," he exclaimed; "it was more than loyalty, it was
worship! Madame, believe me your name has always been to me a sacred
adoration, a passion, an affection beyond expression. Do you doubt it?
Know that I loved you from the first moment I saw you in the house of
the Princess de Poix. I loved you, I adored you secretly, I sought for a
favourable time to declare my passion."

Her eyes opened wide as she listened, and she would have given worlds to
escape, yet her feeling was mainly of pity.

"This is very unfortunate. Calm yourself, Abbe. I will ever have a
lively feeling of gratefulness for your devotion. Think of me on those
terms."

"Ah, Madame, those were the only terms which might have been possible in
former days; but they do not belong to the new _regime_. We are all
equal now. Nothing will satisfy me short of possessing you entirely."

"Abbe, you are excited."

"No, citizeness, I have long been determined you shall be my mate." She
shrank from the word and the uncanny passion of his gaze.

"When you will have reflected a few hours you will see that this is
impossible."

"What! impossible? And why impossible? Ah, yes, I know, it is because of
your pretty-faced lover Repentigny. I know all about that. I could have
crushed him between my fingers; and I will crush him yet. What!--that
man between myself and you! Why, then, did I bring you here? Was it to
allow his interference with my object? After all I have done for you, am
I to be met with answers of this sort?"

"I appreciate entirely your services, Abbe; they are too great to be
underrated."

"They shall be more, citizeness. In these days it is _my_ turn to
dictate."

"Am I to understand that this has been your aim all along?"

He hesitated, but replied boldly, "It has, and were it not for that, I
might long ago have pointed out both you and your doll-head lover to the
Committee of Public Safety."

"Then your whole service has been abstention from positive treachery for
your own ends?"

"You dare me? Caution, citizeness! You are in my power."

"In your power? You are a coward as well as a knave, then?"

"Remember still more," he hissed, losing all control of himself, "that
your lover also is in my power; he is captured."

"My God! you have brought us to this!" she cried.

The door creaked and the Admiral entered.

"Be off, you cur!" said he, standing sternly over the Abbe, who shrank
as if struck. "Go to your work, you----"

A look of terror upon his countenance, Jude precipitated himself through
the doorway.

The Admiral closed it, and returning, sat down by the candle and began
to talk to Cyrene. Seeing his features so close and large and
accentuated by the candle-light, their coarseness and horror filled her
with wonder.

"So that fellow boasts of his fidelity!" he exclaimed, in a repulsively
modulated and familiar tone. "What a wealth of tenderness such a
kidnapping shows! Possibly you knew his profession, citizeness?--that of
salaried spy. Your protector he claims to be? Excellent--when he could
not turn a straw in your favour. He has deprived you of your freedom;
that was easier in these times. I, on the other hand," he added, smiling
yet more hideously, "am here to return it to you."

"I thank you," she replied wearily, without hope.

"I shall reveal to you the true reason of your immunity for so long from
the wrath of the people. It was because of Repentigny, not of yourself.
I arranged it, and you were then unknown to me. Through him Bec and
Caron, two friends of the people, had died six years ago, in the days of
the tyrant. It was I, as avenger, not the worm Jude as lover, who
watched over your household in the Rue Honore, reserving Repentigny for
prolonged punishment. It was I whose power surrounded you as it has
surrounded all Paris." He paused proudly.

"Citizeness, last night I saw you for the first time. Your wonderful
courage, your astonishing beauty, overcame the most martial of hearts."

She started and shivered violently. Was she to endure two proposals
within the hour, from such revolting creatures, and at what violence
would their outrages end?

"Come," he said, offering to embrace her. She started back in terror.

"Do not tremble," he went on patronisingly; "you have nothing to fear
from me, everything to expect. I am able to give you whatever you
ask--mansions, carriages, jewels, pleasures, unlimited wealth, unlimited
power. These are in my hands. I rule Paris--yes, France--and shall rule
Europe. You shall sit by my side, and the whole world shall serve you.
They shall fear or love you as you will, but I am able to see that they
obey you or sink under my hand. Do not fear the squalor of these brutes
whom I govern; you shall see nothing of them, for we shall sit upon the
heights of the Revolution. Around us Paris shall always be gay and
fascinating. Tell me your slightest wish, citizeness; it shall be
yours."

"You will grant me a wish?" she exclaimed.

"Assuredly," he answered.

"Take me, then," said she, "to him you call Repentigny."

"Repentigny or Lecour?" he said, pointing to the name. "Citizeness, he
is unworthy of you--totally unworthy."

"Maligner!"

"Keep your coolness, Madame; the man has long deceived you. The story
that he is a plebeian is true. I can prove it."

"I asked you nothing of that sort; take me--only take me to him. Keep
your promise."

"Very well, citizeness, there is but one condition. He is in the
Conciergerie--in going to him you must, like him, be committed to be
condemned."

"Gladly! gladly! Take me to him--take me to him--for the love of
heaven."

"I love not heaven very much, citizeness, but, curse you, you seem fool
enough to be granted what you ask. Look out of this door."

Obeying, she saw that a crowd of _Sans-culottes_ had filled the shop.

Carmagnoled and sabred, they lounged in slothful consultation and
obscured the air with bad tobacco-smoke. On the Admiral opening the
door, they rose in a disorderly way and made him a sort of salute.

"Arrest her," he ordered, beckoning the two foremost and waving his
skinny hand back to Cyrene. They came forward and grasped her arms.

"To the Conciergerie!" he said, "and each of you answers for her with
your head."

As terrified as she, the two guards tied her hands and marched her off
through the Street of the Hanged Man.

In times of great misery strange things bring us happiness; the thought
of her condemnation to death lifted her like an aerial tide, because
being with Germain went with it.




CHAPTER LII

THE SUPREME EXACTITUDE


Whoever passed within the walls of the Conciergerie was counted lost. Of
the prisons of the Revolution, it was that to which the accused were
transferred from the others on the eve of sentence; and underneath it
was the hall of the pretended court infamous to all time as "the
Tribunal of Blood." The _fiacre_ containing Germain and the National
Guards in whose charge Hache placed him, was followed by the mob to the
doors, and at times it appeared as if he would certainly be torn away
and hanged to a lantern rope. In front of the Conciergerie, whose portal
was lit luridly by two torches, a delighted audience of _Sans-culottes_
received his approach with clapping.

"Another!" they shouted.

And, as an arrest was brought in from the opposite direction just
afterwards, they clapped again and repeated their shout of "Another!"

His guards dragged him into the presence of the concierge, who eyed him
from his arm-chair with a drunken glance.

"Dungeon," he muttered.

With a banging of bolts and a creaking of doors, two turnkeys led Lecour
down into a region of darkness. The turnkeys, like their chief, were
surly sots. They took him along a low passage where mastiffs which
patrolled it eyed him, threw back a cell door, thrust him in, and
disappeared with their lanterns.

Shut in by low, dark walls, and a roof and floor of stone, reeking with
damp and filth, the cell, though but twenty feet by ten or twelve, was
already the habitation of at least a score of persons.

Their features could not be easily discerned, since the only light in
the obscurity was that of a single candle.

"Comrade, the floor is soft," exclaimed one of the group nearest him--a
man of one eye lying on a pile of straw. "Let me present you to our
_confrere_, the parricide."

"Shut your gob, thief," shouted a voice, and a heavy scuffle ensued.

Germain leaned against the wall to recover his nerves.

The other inmates had been holding a mock revolutionary trial and
condemning one of their number to execution. Some acted the part of
judges, some of jury-men, two of guards.

The man on trial turned indignantly on the criminals who had first
accosted Lecour.

"I pray you, Monsieur," said he courteously to the latter, "Do not take
that for your reception here. Those men are the disgrace of the cell.
The rest of us have been used to a happier condition. Let us introduce
ourselves. I am the Baron de Grancey; my friend, the judge president, is
the Count de Bellecour."

Germain's surprise would have been great had he been less in misery. As
it was he was surprised at nothing. Here it was but another stab in his
heart. Unable to answer he sat down on a stone bench.

"Friends, we must change the diversion," Grancey said sympathetically.
"Perhaps our comrade might feel better over a hand at picquet."

"Ten straws a point!" exclaimed Bellecour. "Dame, it seems to me I know
his face. Where have I met you, sir?"

"De Lincy, _pardieu_!" Grancey echoed, scrutinising the new-comer's
features. "Friend Germain, this is a sorry place to welcome you, but you
will find it brighter than you think; there are wit, forgetfulness,
society, and some happiness, even in the Conciergerie. Wait until you
get up to the corridor to-morrow; you will meet enough of your friends
to hold a respectable reception."

Still Germain could not answer. They did not realise his sorrow and
embarrassment in the presence of the old friends to whose friendship he
felt he had no right. His head remained bent. Of a sudden the candle
flickered out and relieved him of the need of speaking. They withdrew
wondering to their pile of straw.

He did not move from the bench where he sat. Soon, except for the heavy
breathing of his companions, silence enveloped the place. He became
absorbed in anxious imaginings.

What had happened when Cyrene and Dominique returned to the house? What
accidents overtook them at the Hotel de Ville? Where was she? What were
her thoughts at that moment? And what her sufferings? Then a picture
flitted across his consciousness of the early days of their meeting, the
life at Fontainebleau, the charm of old Versailles. At the memory of
that taste of a beautiful existence, an unearthly, sorrowful, prophetic
longing came over him, not for himself but for others, for a clime where
falsity, grief, change, and pride should be winnowed completely away
from loveliness. He dreamt a world to come wherein the poor, the
low-born, the deformed, yes, the debased children of crime itself should
become of strong and perfect forms, of sensitive and rich artistic
sense, wealthy as imagination in castles, parks, and solitudes, pure
and keen of honour, spiritually sweet of thought, and so live serene for
ever, for ever, for ever.

As morning grew, a dim light became perceptible from the corridor, and
the prisoners one by one awoke. But Lecour was so weary that he fell
asleep on the bench.

His shoulder was roughly shaken. "Stand up," said a turnkey. Germain
opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.

"Salute the President of the Commune, you----" Before him was a short
man in carmagnole and sabre, whom the other prisoners eyed with
resentment and alarm.

Lecour bowed.

"You have met me before," the stranger said mockingly. "Once in the
Royal hunting grounds of Fontainebleau. It was accidental. Perhaps I
should not presume on the acquaintance."

Lecour perfectly recalled the visitor to the cave. That face once seen
could never be forgotten, and he was overcome by the ominousness of the
meeting. However, he recovered enough to answer sternly--

"Take your revenge; my neck is in your power."

"Judgment must be pronounced on you first. Listen to your judgment,
Sieur de Lincy, or Repentigny. Inasmuch as, years ago, you hunted brave
men who through you were condemned to death, which they suffered on the
wheel; inasmuch as you wickedly murdered the starving peasants of the
parishes of Eaux Tranquilles while in the pursuit of liberty; inasmuch
as you resisted the sovereign people and sided with the cut-throats of
Versailles, when you participated in the crimes of the Bodyguard;
inasmuch as you have been of the party of conspirators against the
Revolution, and have plotted with the tyrant Capet and his widow for the
Counter-revolution; inasmuch as you are a suspect, inasmuch as you are
an _emigre_; inasmuch as you are a rich and an aristocrat; inasmuch as
you, Germain Lecour, son of Francois Xavier Lecour, peasant of Canada,
and grandson of a butcher of Paris, did thus oppress the people without
the excuse of hereditary illusion, but were a cheat and adventurer
sprung from their own bosom; inasmuch as in order to do so you have
broken many laws of the land and natural rights of mankind, have
outraged the sacred names of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, and have
brought, especially upon yourself, the retribution of that Order of the
Galley-on-Land, part of which was assembled before you in the cave of
Fontainebleau; know now then, for the first time, that through all these
dealings you have been tracked by them in your every movement; that your
misdeeds were collected, not forgotten; that our vengeance was on your
path and waited but the time that suited us; that to hundreds unknown to
you it will be a day of feasting to see you die; that they will drink
wine for your blood and eat bread for your flesh, and when your head
drops into the basket, they will regret the days of tyranny for this
only--that the humanity of these times does not allow of breaking you in
turn on the wheel."

"You are frank," returned Germain bitterly.

The Admiral was taken aback. He had counted on more effect for his
harangue.

"I have one more '_inasmuch_,'" said he, with a sting in his tone and a
gleam in his eye. "Inasmuch as by your imposture you deceived and misled
a heart too pure and lofty for such as you to have dared towards----"

This shaft was aimed to strike deep, and so it did. Germain's defiant
bearing fell, he dropped his head and groaned.

"Strike him!" roared Grancey. "You must die anyway. Strike, in default
of a sword to run him through!"

"He dares not!" the Admiral exclaimed to the group of aristocrats. "You
take him for one of yourselves. You are his dupes like the others."

"You admit this _inasmuch_?" he inquired triumphantly of Lecour.

"It is true, true, true," moaned Germain. "I may not deny it--the
greatest crime of all my crimes."

The Admiral turned with a snort to Lecour's former companions. They were
aghast.

"Had he denied it here are the proofs, absolutely beyond question!" the
Admiral exclaimed, waving the Record, which he held in his hand.

"By the saints! what a conclusion," Bellecour exclaimed, curling his
lip. As for Grancey he slowly turned his back, threw himself down on the
straw on his face, and did not move. The Admiral again faced Germain.

"Shall I tell you something?"

Lecour's heart leaped. His eyes bespoke his suspense. Everything this
man had to say seemed of such import that what went before faded for the
moment.

"She is here."

"Here? Merciful God! alas, alas, poor Cyrene!"

The Admiral allowed him some moments. Ultimately he said, eyeing him
keenly--

"You love her--would you like to save her?"

"Is there a hope?" Lecour said hoarsely, looking up with bloodshot eyes.

"Certainly, if you will do what I demand."

"Anything God will permit."

"The condition is this. That you make her with your own lips, in my
presence, a confession of your imposture, of which, remember, I besides
hold the proofs. Otherwise she dies to-morrow. Are you willing?" And the
Admiral bent eagerly towards him with eyes full of flaming lights.

Lecour's heart stopped. His head flushed to bursting, the shame of years
overcame him. His assent was expressed by more a groan than a word. The
frightful thought was that she would repulse him for ever.

Yes, that too must be faced and done with--bitterness of bitterness. The
old dream so marvellously won by deception must be shattered in every
point. The Eternal Justice said to him: "NO MAN WHO HAS PROFITED BY A
WRONG SHALL KEEP ITS FRUITS." Ah, what fruit of fruits, her love!

"It will finish him with her," the Admiral muttered, watching him. But
Lecour did not hear. The _Sans-culotte_ President rapped on the iron
door with his boot, a turnkey replied, and in a few minutes four of
these men appeared with Cyrene. As soon as she saw Germain she clasped
her hands to her bosom and uttered a strange cry, a cry full of wild
gladness and fierce agony, such as a soul writhing in the flames of
purgatory might give at a sudden opening of the gates of both heaven and
hell, and she sprang forward to press him to her breast.

Not such was the will of the Admiral. As quick as she, he interposed
himself, and standing in front of Germain grasped her arm and said to
her firmly--

"This fellow has something to say to you first."

Then, turning to Lecour, who stood with head down and feelings worse
than those of his condemnation to death--

"Speak, butcher's grandson!"

He withdrew a step to allow Germain to face Cyrene.

The condemned man fell upon his knees and broke into sobs.

"Speak, housekeeper's son!" the Admiral cried exultantly.

"You are a devil!" screamed Cyrene to him, and bent down her arms to
Germain.

To her bitter surprise the latter shrank back, and seizing her hand
covered it with kisses instead.

"No," he sobbed, "no, Madame Baroness; it is all true--I am not your
equal. I am baseborn, an impostor, an adventurer, the son of the peasant
and the servant, the grandson of the butcher. I am no de Lincy nor
Repentigny. My titles were false, my credit stolen, my position came to
me by accident, and my defence was one long falsehood. De Lery was
right. In him I wronged a man of honour, and my retribution is the
judgment of God. Forgive me all the awful wrong I have done you. Forgive
me as a creature whose only excuse has been an irresistible worship of
even your footsteps."

"Stop!" the Admiral cried. "Citizeness, ponder your treatment by this
varlet, who has deceived you, besmirched your life, and contaminated
your hand. Another career is yours; leave him to his punishment."

The words of the two men reached her, but their meaning was not
credible. Her lover--her Germain, her knight--a deceiver, an impostor?
She could not realise it. Then the truth of the scene rushed over her;
its logic became inescapable.

"Oh," she wailed in one long, agonised moan, sobbing and writhing in the
intensity of her torture, "how can I bear this?"

"Come," said the Admiral, but she was oblivious to all except the storm
of her distress.

"Come," repeated the Admiral, but she heard not.

"Come," repeated he once more impatiently; but her tear-filled eyes were
fixed upon Germain. The horror of his falsity was strong within her, but
his chivalry and tenderness throughout their long association could not
be so quickly forgotten, nor the bonds of her affection so instantly
blotted out. The mystery of his long sorrow dawned upon her, and his
utter self-accusation appealed to her pity. Their differences of rank
became as nothing.

"Come away," said the Admiral again, with soft-uttered persuasiveness.

Cyrene's nature, in those moments, had felt, thought, concluded with
lightning swiftness. Her soul swept through a great arc of intuition.

"No, no, there is something I do not understand!" she cried. "My
Germain, God has made you for me. You loved me and were led astray, but
you are honourable and faithful in the sight of heaven, my eternal love.
Let us kiss each other. Let us press each other to our breasts and die;
in a few hours we shall be together for ever."

Before the Admiral could prevent it they were clasped in a passionate,
feverish, last embrace.

"Very well," the Admiral sneered frigidly. "I keep my promises.
Apothecary's apprentice, to-day you die. As for you, citizeness, I give
you your freedom."

"I reject it--I will die with him," she answered.

"Not at all," he returned. "I promised him your liberty. I keep my
promises."

"Wretch! you would separate the betrothed from the dying?"

"Go, beloved," said Germain, releasing her. "It is just that I should
die, but not you. I shall love you in the grave. Remember not my
errors."

"No, I will never leave you, Germain. Oh, Germain, I will die with
you."

"Take the woman off!" growled the Admiral to the turnkeys. They obeyed
him instantly.

Germain rushed after them to the door of the cell, but it was closed
upon him, and he caught only a shadow through the grating and heard her
last cry of grief.




CHAPTER LIII

RETRIBUTION ACCOMPLISHED


When Cyrene was pushed out of the outer portal of the prison she was met
by her good friend the patriot Hugues la Tour.

"Do not despair," said he. "My influence is great; he shall yet be
saved."

"Oh, for the love of God, try, citizen," she sobbed. Supporting her he
signed for a _fiacre_ and drove her to his room not far away, where he
left her with the housekeeper, and bidding her trust in him, flew back
and obtained an interview with Lecour in his cell. He explained the
object of his visit and the history of his connection with Cyrene.

"And now I am come to return her life for life," he ended.

"But mine is not worth it," Germain answered soberly. "Save hers. How
can you risk yourself for me? I was once the cause of your
condemnation."

"What matters that. It was but what was believed right at the time. In
our glorious Revolution we do not think of revenge; we only seek to
strike at the enemies of human rights. You are not really an aristocrat.
Plead that before the judges: your liberty will not be hard for me to
obtain."

"Noble-hearted man----"

"Take care--the word 'noble' is forbidden."

"You are generous, citizen. My conscience tells me it would be base to
do as you urge. After plucking life's blossoms as an aristocrat I must
grasp the thorns."

Nothing could save him from his determination. He had lived as an
aristocrat--it was incumbent on him, he said, not to shirk death as one.

At last la Tour left him and sought for the Admiral. He could not find
the latter until about two o'clock, and then at the prison. The
concierge said he was in the courtyard and la Tour found him engaged in
a singular business.

The women's courtyard was separated by an iron railing some fifteen feet
long from the men's. Here the imprisoned ladies communicated with their
male friends as gaily as if each were not foredoomed. The Faubourg St.
Germain was transferred to the Conciergerie. The toilets were the
freshest and the manners most well-bred in Paris. The guillotine was the
subject of facetious remarks up to the very hour of parting for the
mockery of the trial below, and at evening vows of love were breathed
between the bars. La Tour found a crowd on both sides enjoying the
cramped promenade. Amid this crowd was a "sheep"--one of those vile
spies who acted the part of pretending to be a fellow-prisoner of the
rest in order that he might entrap them into unguarded expressions and
denounce them.

The _Sans-culottes_ commissioners were selecting their daily list of
victims at random. In doing so they seized the "sheep." The Admiral was
present and the "sheep" appealed to him, protesting his occupation. The
Admiral only laughed at him.

"Correct," said he to the guard, chuckling, and the guard needed no
more. They began to drag the "sheep" away.

The "sheep" was Jude.

"I am yours--you promised me my life," he desperately screamed back. The
Admiral smiled contemptuously; his eyes were very bright and hard.

"I promised that Repentigny should die first; you afterwards; I grant
you the privilege of going second." The _Sans-culottes_, their noisy
laughs resounding through the corridor and echoed by the baying of the
mastiffs, dragged the spy away.

La Tour could not move the Admiral to any leniency for Germain. The
bandit followed each of his prayers by a sinister silence. At length la
Tour was compelled by lack of time to give him up and speed to the
revolutionary tribunal itself, in session underneath. He was just in
time to make his appeal, for Lecour was already brought before the jury
and the five judges.

The strenuous efforts of Hugues were nullified by the persistent refusal
of the Canadian to take advantage of the device proposed to him, by his
would-be preserver--of declaring himself a non-aristocrat. La Tour
vehemently urged him at least to cry--"_Vive la Republique!_" At that
Lecour seemed to conceive an idea, and stepping forward cried instead in
a voice of decision--

"Long live the King!"

His sentence was signed immediately.

Sanson's death-carts rolled into the courtyard. The hour for the daily
public show had arrived. The rest of the prisoners on trial were
peremptorily shoved through the mill of condemnation and all were
hustled up to the toilette of the executioner. Hands tied, hair cut,
feet bared, half a dozen were pushed up into each cart, seated three on
a side, and the carts set out. Seven in the line, the roughest, rudest
vehicles in the town, they jerked over the uneven cobbles, rumbled
across the Pont-Neuf, and crept along the Rue de la Monnaie and then
along the Rue Honore, regardless, both they, their carters, their
executioner's men, and their Dragoon escorts, of the agony they
freighted. The streets themselves wore unfeeling faces. The merchants
had closed their shutters and across the facades of many houses were
large inscriptions such as, "THE REPUBLIC ONE AND INDIVISIBLE,"
"LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY, _or Death_." And the sun poured down its
untempered rays on the condemned. But more pitiless than carts or
streets or sun were the coarse Jacobins who ran alongside.

With what fine wit they shouted--

"Long live the razor of the Republic!"

A newsvendor began to sing, and was joined in chorus--

    "Doctor Guillotin,
    That great _medecin_
    Love of human kind
    Preoccupies his mind."

As to the company of the lost in the carts, they consisted of a strange
variety. In the first, the principal persons were a majestic woman and
her two daughters, sitting erect, with hands tied, costumed freshly and
invested still with the old carefulness of manner; but the eyes of the
youngest were staring with horror. There was a large dog in the same
cart, condemned for carrying despatches. In the next a National
Assembly-man, betrayed by Robespierre, tore his hair and raved on his
fate. Opposite him two poor sewing-women, falsely accused by a
neighbour, sat helplessly, their eyes shut, their lips incessantly
repeating prayers; by their side, a boy of eight, with bright, fair
features, sobbing, his little hands tied, as the executioner's man
showed the crowd with a laugh. His crime was that his father had been a
Count. Third came the cart containing Germain, to whom all eyes were
directed. On the seat opposite him was Jude, frantically entreating the
saints, the driver, the guards, and the crowd to take pity on his soul.

"Buy the bulletin of the revolutionary tribunal; judgements of to-day!
The horrible aristocrat Repentigny brought to justice! Here he is! here
is the one who defied the jury!"

"Bodyguard of Capet!"

"Here is the one who killed Bec and Caron!" shrilled Wife Gougeon.

"Long live the Galley-on-Land!"

These cries gradually roused Lecour, and for the first time, putting it
all together and recognising faces, he realised the truth of the
Admiral's boast that he had been pursued all these years by the crew
about him--the organisation of the cave of Fontainebleau. The long-lit
hatred of so many eyes stabbed his heart to the quick. Yet of the inward
Passion of his journey there was no outward appearance. He sat quiet of
visage, clinging to the one underlying thought that he had been able to
free Cyrene. Alas! how long even yet could it be before she would be
riding the same ride?

Suddenly Abbe Jude in front of him lost his frantic gestures and sobbed
violently. Germain put aside his own concerns, and bending over
whispered gently, "Courage, my brother, for a little."

"Admit even now that you are not an aristocrat," cried Hughes from
beside the cart, "and I will move heaven and earth to reprieve you."

But Germain went steadily forward.

The Place de la Revolution, now completely transformed into the Place de
la Concorde, that ornament of Paris, was then unpaved and unfinished. In
the middle stood a plaster statue of Liberty and near it the gaunt
machine of fear--a plank platform reached by a narrow stair having a
single handrail, and, pointing out of it towards the sky a pair of tall
beams between which, on touching a spring, the knife fell on the neck of
the condemned.

From early morning Cyrene had been waiting, racked with fear, at the
house of la Tour on one of the small streets not far from the Place. At
the sound of the shouts which showed that an execution had begun, she
flew there and by despairing force crushed her way through thousands of
spectators, towards the guillotine, on whose platform figures could
already be seen appearing and falling one by one. She moaned and gasped
at each fresh obstacle to her frantic efforts. Her lips were white, her
eyes staring.

The patriotesses, who sat knitting on the stand erected near the machine
for their daily delectation, agreed that she was an excellent diversion.

All at once her difficulty in pushing forward ceased and the brutes
around her made way.

"Give her a good place," she heard one cry, and many hands impelled her
to the foot of the guillotine. Bloated faces, wicked jests, fists
grasping pipes and bottles, a tumult of the coarse and passionate,
swayed, about her, organised under one being, the Admiral, jeering in
his low power. Never had his head, his face, shown more completely their
resemblance to a skull.

As he stretched up his arm with a gesture of ferocious, gleeful malice,
the wretches around the scaffold, as one man, broke into intoxicated
laughter, joined hands and swayed in and out in the popular dance--

    "Hurrah for the sound
      Of the cannon."

Meanwhile two of his henchmen held Cyrene before him.

"Look!" he cried to her. "See!" and pointed up to the guillotine. Her
eyes involuntarily followed.

She saw the flash of the descending blade. Wild and speechless, she hung
petrified on the arms of the two men holding her. But now she was
oblivious of everything except that another head, another form, far
above all else to her, was on the platform. His face was pallid, his
bearing sweet, solemn, and brave.

"Death to the aristocrat!" shouted the excited mob. His lips moved with
a brief appearance of words. Had she been closer she would have beard
him say quietly: "It is just."

The executioner Sanson turned from the last victim and seized him. At
the very instant he felt the grasp he caught sight of the face of his
beloved, held there in the grasp of the two Jacobins. This was the
crowning agony. The immensity of his retribution swept over him in an
overwhelming flood.

"Oh God, does Justice require this too?" he cried.

Sanson's sinewy assistants thrust him against an upright plank. In the
last remnants of her congested, distorted vision, Cyrene saw the bright
knife fall like a lightning vengeance.

At night in the Cemetery of the Madeleine near by la Tour, searching
anxiously with a lantern, found her lying across the common trench into
which the bodies and heads of the executed were indiscriminately thrown
and hastily covered. There, her arms stretched across as if to embrace
as much of it as she could, her wonderful golden majesty of hair strewn
upon them, her white complexion still dazzling in its purity, her blue
eyes half closed, lay the _fiancee_ of the false Repentigny. Her soul
had flown to be blent with that of him who had suffered his punishment,
in the bosom of God, the place of social justice, where all ambition
and all forgiveness melt satisfied and surpassed in Love Divine.

       *       *       *       *       *

A wave of the Revolution swept out to India. In Mahe, under the eyes of
the new Golden Dog, Philibert killed the Marquis de Repentigny.

THE END.

UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.





End of Project Gutenberg's The False Chevalier, by William Douw Lighthall

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