To return to Versailles. On the night of the 19th, the king had resolved on closing the States-General till he summoned it on the 22nd to a royal sitting.

At six o'clock in the morning of Saturday, the 20th, M. Bailly, President of the National Assembly, received a letter from the Marquis de Brezé, Grand-Master of the Ceremonies, of which this is a copy:—

'Versailles, 20th June, 1789.

'The king having ordered me, monsieur, to publish by heralds his majesty's intention of holding, on the 22nd of this month, a royal sitting, and in the interim, a suspension of the Assemblies, that the preparations necessary for the halls of the three orders may be put in hand, I have the honour of announcing the same to you.

'I remain, with respect, sir,

'Your very humble and obedient servant,

'The Marquis de Brezé.

'P.S.—I think it would be as well that you should kindly charge the secretaries to look after the papers, lest they should get scattered. Will you also kindly give me the names of the secretaries, that I may ensure their admission? the necessity of not interrupting the workmen requiring me to forbid permission to every one to enter.'

To this the president replied:—

'I have received, as yet, no order from the king concerning a royal sitting, or concerning the suspension of the Assemblies, and my duty is to betake myself to that Assembly, which I have summoned for eight o'clock this morning.

'I am, sir, &c.'

In reply to this letter, the Marquis de Brezé repeated that he had received orders from the king to have the hall prepared for a royal session, and to close it against everyone.

In the meantime, an immense crowd had assembled in the Avenue de Paris and the Rue des Chantiers to see and cheer the clergy as they entered the hall to unite with the Third Estate. The delegates began to arrive at half-past seven, and at a quarter to eight Bailly appeared with an agitated face in time to see a detachment of French guards march into the hôtel of the States-General and take possession of it. Bailly went off to consult some friends, and did not return till nearly nine, when he presented himself at the door of the hall and demanded admittance.

The officer in charge, the Count de Vertan, courteously declined to admit him and the rest of the deputies, having received strict orders from head quarters.

M. Bailly, with difficulty, obtained permission to enter a cabinet adjoining the entrance, to draw up a protest against the exclusion of the Assembly. The Count de Vertan then admitted the secretaries to remove the papers. They found the major portion of the seats removed, and all the avenues of the hall guarded by soldiers.

The excitement without became intense, and the streets rung with remonstrances and protests against an arbitrary authority which had thus insulted the representatives of the people. Bailly, with difficulty, by standing on a flight of steps and shouting, collected the delegates together; he then urged on them to remain till some place suitable for continuing their meeting should present itself.

'To Marly!' shouted some. 'Let us go beneath the walls of the château, and hold our session there. Let us show the proud Court that the Third Estate is not to be humbled with impunity.'

'To Marly!' called others. 'Yes, we will march there at once, and make the king hold his royal sitting amongst us, assembled in the open air.'

'Live the king!' was shouted; 'he is managed by our enemies. The queen poisons his mind, but his heart is with the people.'

'Let us go to the Place d'Armes!' cried others.

'To the great Gallery!' was another suggestion; 'to the gallery where the execution of him who pronounced the sacred word Liberty was so lately signed.'

The mass of people began to roll towards the palace of Versailles. 'In another twenty-four hours,' says Grégoire in his Mémoires, 'bullets would have been flying against the old Court den.'

At this moment Bailly reappeared. He had secured the Tennis Court in the Rue S. François of old Versailles; it was Dr. Guillotin's suggestion.

Of all the monuments in Versailles, that old, plain, unfurnished Tennis Court is the most interesting. The Englishman visiting Versailles should not forget that the immense palace is but a monument of despotism;—that its grandeur, such as it is, cries aloud of a pride and selfishness so alarming, that Louis XIV burnt the bills for its erection, not venturing to allow them to be seen, whilst France was starving and sinking under a load of debt; while the Jeu de Paume, as the birthplace of the nascent liberties of France, humble and unadorned as it remains, is worthy of his most reverent regard.

It was a spacious room, without true windows, but with large openings netted over, which admit light, air, and rain. The walls, covered with yellow wash, were festooned with cobwebs, the roof was unceiled; the floor rudely laid with common pavement, and unprovided with seats.

A chair was borrowed from the owner of the Tennis Court for the president, but Bailly declined it. A table was brought in; the secretaries seated themselves at it, and the president stood on a bench. Two deputies stationed themselves at the door to keep it, but were speedily relieved by the keeper of the Tennis Court, who offered his services. Couthon was brought in on his crutches, and to him the seat of the president was given, in consideration of his infirmities. Grégoire, with his beautiful eyes alight with animation, entered, followed by four other curés, Besse, Ballard, Jallet, and Lecesve, in their black cassocks and cloaks. Rabaud-Saint-Étienne, the Calvinist minister, was there, dressed in the uniform of the lay delegates,—black coat, black waistcoat, black knee-breeches, and black stockings. Dom Gerle, the Carthusian, was also there, with shaven head, and white serge habit. Robespierre with his needle eyes, and retreating forehead—Mirabeau shaking his Medusa-like head and locks, and stamping with indignation—Mounier, prim and composed—Buzot, his long face composed into a contemptuous smile, wearing his natural dark hair divided over his brow, his heavy lids lifted a little to dart a scornful glance around—Sieyez frozen as ever.

Bailly, rising, said, in a voice faltering with agitation,—'Gentlemen, there is no need for me to give expression to the feeling dominant in every breast. I propose that we deliberate on the part we should take in a time so beset with storms.'

Mounier, standing on a form, said:—'It seems to me most strange that we, the representatives of France, should find our hall occupied by armed men, that we should be cast adrift in the streets without shelter, that no official notice should have been sent to our president, for I cannot regard the communication of the master of the ceremonies as a notice;—that we should be obliged to take refuge in this old tennis-court for want of a better room, in order that we may continue our labours. I think all this is more than strange: it is a proof to us that the Court party are resolved on wounding us in our rights and our dignities, that they are determined by their intrigues to exasperate the king against us, that they are bent on trampling the liberties of the people under their feet. I propose, in the face of so compact and resolute an opposition, that the representatives of the nation should take a solemn oath to cling together till they have given to France a constitution.'

This proposition was warmly received. An oath was drawn up, and Bailly, mounting on the table, read it aloud:—'We swear never to separate from the National Assembly, and to meet wherever circumstances shall permit, till the constitution of this realm has been established and affirmed on solid foundations.'

Instantly every arm was raised towards Bailly, and every mouth took up the formula; and the mob without burst forth into shouts of 'Vive l'Assemblée! Vive le Roi!'

On the morrow, the road to Marly was thronged with nobles and bishops on their way to the king to beseech him to restrain the audacity of the commons. A small minority protested against royal intervention; it was composed of forty-seven members, the Dukes of Liancourt and of La Rochefoucauld, Lally-Tolendal, the two Lameths, Duport, and La Fayette.

The royal sitting fixed for Monday, the 22nd, was postponed to the 23rd. All kinds of mean intrigue were had recourse to to prevent a meeting of the Third Estate and the union with it of the house of the Clergy on the Monday. The Count d'Artois sent to the owner of the tennis-court and engaged it for the day, so that the Assembly was again turned adrift in the streets of Versailles.

Lindet, mounting a cart which was passing, but which had been arrested by the crowd that encumbered the street before the tennis-court, cried aloud:—

'To the church of S. Louis! Where more suitable to see the reunion of the orders?'

The cry was caught up and flung down the street,—

'To S. Louis!' and directly the mass of human beings began to move in that direction.

It was eleven o'clock before the Assembly was seated in the vast nave and choir of the cathedral church. The court had forgotten to close the churches, and thus the magnificent scheme of the Count of Artois and the Princes of Condé and Conté was defeated.

As soon as a table had been brought in from the sacristy, and the secretaries had taken their places, the minutes of the meeting in the tennis-court were read, and the president read a letter he had received from the king, at two o'clock in the morning, announcing the postponement of the royal session till the following day, and his determination that the great hall of the Menus should remain closed till then.

Several members who had been absent from the gathering at the tennis-court then took the oath and attached to it their signatures.

These preliminaries over, Bailly announced that the Clergy were about to arrive in a body at one o'clock, and formally unite with the Third Estate, and he requested those ecclesiastics who were then in the church to withdraw to the lodgings of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, where the majority of the house of the Clergy were to assemble.

Immediately all those delegates who had taken possession of the seats near the choir vacated them, to leave the place of honour free for the bishops and clergy.

The shouts and applause roaring in the square before the cathedral, like the advancing bore of the Ganges, announced to those within the sacred building the approach of the ecclesiastics. All rose to receive them as they entered and took their places in the choir, when with loud voice each of the one hundred and forty-nine who had signed the declaration of Friday, the 19th, answered to their roll-call, and verified their names. The names of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, the Bishop of Chartres, the Archbishop of Vienne, the Bishop of Rhodez, of Grégoire, and of Lindet, who were known to be strenuous adherents to the cause of liberty and justice, were received with thunders of applause.

Then the choir gates were thrown open, and the Archbishop of Vienne, followed by the clergy, descended to the nave to take their places in the National Assembly.

'Gentlemen,' said the archbishop, 'we come with joy to execute the decision of the majority of the deputies of the order of the clergy to the States-General. This reunion is the signal and the prelude to the constant and permanent union which they desire to cement with all orders, and especially with the deputies of the Commons.'

'My lord and gentlemen,' answered the president; 'you see the joy in our faces, you hear by our applause how great is the satisfaction in our hearts, which your presence inspires. That presence here is due to a pure sentiment,—the love of union and of the public weal. France will bless this auspicious day, and will never forget those worthy pastors who have thus announced before their country that they desire above all things—Peace on earth to men of good-will.'

Lindet touched Grégoire's arm.

'We have saved the country.'

'All depends now on the king,' answered the curé of Emberménil. 'We have acted right, as Christians and as patriots. If the king accepts what is inevitable, all will go well; if he allows himself to be forced into war, why then!—--'

'Then what?'

'A Revolution is inevitable.'

CHAPTER XXVIII.

After the interview with the queen, Madeleine reconducted Gabrielle out of the park to the tavern where they had left Percenez.

The little man sat at the door on a bench, smoking, his leathery face void of expression. Behind his back was a pack slung by a thong to his shoulders.

'Eh, well!' said he, as the girls approached; 'since you have been away, I have been doing a stroke of work. I have sold a dozen copies of the Moniteur, eighteen copies of Mirabeau's Lettres à mes Commettants, several of the Journal de Paris, and of the Mercure, besides some little pamphlets which I won't name, and which nobody sees but those who are intended to read them. Well! and what has been the result? Ah! David says, Nolite confidere in principibus in quibus non est salus. You have found out what it has taken France many centuries to discover. Better late than never.'

'She has failed,' said Madeleine; 'and I have told her to look elsewhere for help.'

'Ah!' said the colporteur; 'we shall see. Events march like the seasons. Ça ira, ça ira! But till the time comes, what is to be done with our little peasantess? She must return to Bernay.'

'But how is she to return?' asked Madeleine; 'you cannot accompany her.'

'No,' answered the little man; 'I do not think I can. But go she must.'

'And where am I to go to if I do return?' inquired Gabrielle; 'I have no home at Bernay now.'

'Ah!' said Percenez; 'that is awkward.'

'The roads are crowded with brigands,' said Madeleine; 'we hear of them trooping into Paris from all the country round, and it is not safe for Gabrielle to encounter them alone.'

'That again is awkward,' said Percenez.

'Then what is to be done?' asked Madeleine.

'Under the circumstances,' spoke the little brown man, 'I see nothing else to be done than for me to find a lodging elsewhere, and to take my ward with me. She must put off her country dress, and you, Madeleine, can dress her in your Parisian style, and then she can assist me in selling pamphlets and papers.'

'So it must be,' Madeleine said; 'but I am sorry to lose her. We have already become friends, though so unlike in character and disposition.'

'Please, M. Étienne,' said Gabrielle, gently; 'do you not think we might remain with Madame Deschwanden? Perhaps the police will not return to make search for me again; and even if they do, what can they say to me? I have done what M. Berthier desired to prevent.'

'That is true,' observed Percenez.

'And again,' pursued Gabrielle; 'I shall be near the Bastille and my dear mistress. I cannot, I will not, go far from her.'

'It is too dangerous,' said the colporteur.

'Now, uncle!' exclaimed Madeleine; 'take my advice. Return for this night to our house. I believe there is far too much subject for anxiety to Berthier and all his crew to make them trouble themselves much more about an inoffensive peasantess. If the times were quiet, it would be different; but with Paris in a ferment, it is most unlikely that any further measures will be taken to secure Gabrielle.'

'That is very true,' said Percenez; 'I have begun to think so myself.'

'Besides,' continued Madeleine, 'my mother is dreadfully put out at the prospect of losing you both.'

'I did not know that my sister was so anxious to retain us.'

'Oh yes, she is. She is enthusiastic about it. She vows that she will die of chagrin if you go. Return to the Rue S. Antoine this night, and talk to her about what is to be done. My mother is a woman of resources. I never saw my mother nonplused yet. When she heard that you were afraid of remaining in her house, she said, "Afraid of what?" I answered, "Of the gendarmes." On which she exclaimed, "My faith! as if I were not a match for a whole regiment of them!" And,' added Madeleine, with an air of conviction so ludicrous that it made Percenez laugh, 'she is so, I assure you.'

'I do not know about gendarmes,' said the little man, slyly; 'but I know that the very mention of a Swiss patriot, or of a Swiss saint, routs her immediately.'

'Mon Dieu! who could help it?' exclaimed Madeleine, seriously; 'we are pestered every day with Werner Stauffacher, Erni of Melchthal, and Walter Fürst; and, worst of all, with Bruder Klaus. I have actually seen my mother, in her exasperation, when the corporal and his son were out, wring the nose of the illustrious Bruder in his niche; but the corporal does not know it, or I believe he would separate from his wife in horror at the sacrilege. The corporal is especially enthusiastic just now, for he has served his time, and he expects his discharge shortly.'

'What does he propose to do then?'

'What but to return to father-land; and my mother is perfectly frantic at the idea. To leave Paris for Switzerland, is to quit civilisation for barbarism.'

It is needful for us to return to Madame Deschwanden, who was in despair at the prospect of losing her lodgers. She had less to do in millinery, at a time of great popular agitation, than suited her wishes, and the chance of making a little money by her brother and Gabrielle was too good an opportunity to be thrown away; and she therefore resolved to retain them, if she could.

To effect her purpose, she dressed herself in her most bewitching out-of-door costume, and sallied forth into the streets, leaving Nicholas at home to attend to the house. She took her way towards Berthier's mansion, bowing and smiling to acquaintances whom she met at almost every step, and stopping occasionally to exchange greetings with her most intimate and cherished friends, who numbered about two hundred and fifty.

Madame was dressed with the utmost care; a little powder and rouge had improved her complexion. Her hair was heaped up into a magnificent pile, from which depended two ringlets that rested à la Marie Antoinette on her shoulders; a lace handkerchief covered her bosom, was crossed over her breast, and tied behind. Her gown was looped up so as to expose a pair of very active, neat little feet in high-heeled boots, which threw madame forward, and made the use of a cane necessary.

On reaching the door of Berthier's house she rung, and asked to see Monsieur the Intendant.

She was admitted immediately to the yard in the middle of the house, where she saw Berthier seated in an easy chair, armed with a long carter's whip, lashing his bloodhounds, which bayed and barked, producing such a deafening noise that he could scarcely hear what Gustave said to him, when he approached to announce Madame Deschwanden.

'Down, you rascally Pigeon!' shouted Berthier; 'will you now venture to touch the meat, Poulet? Very well,' and he drew the whip across the hound's nose. 'So!' as Pigeon sprang forward; 'so, and so, and so!' slashing at it over the breast and belly as the beast sprang into the air, yelling with pain. 'What is it, Gustave? Ha there! Back, you devil!' and he cut the dog Poulet, so that the blood started. 'Well, Gustave! speak higher. You would like your dinner, eh! Pigeon, creep up to it, a little closer; closer still—so—so—and so;' he caught the lash of the whip in his hand, whirled the handle round above his head and brought the end of it, which was weighted, down on the brute's head so as for the moment to stun it. 'Now, Gustave, what do you want? A lady, eh! young and pretty is she, eh? Pardon;' he rose to his feet and saluted Madame Deschwanden, whom he saw at that moment. The corporal's wife smiled, threw a coquettish glance into her eyes, and brushed her ringlets from her shoulders.

'Really,' said the lady, 'those dogs make so much noise, that it is quite impossible for me to speak here without elevating my voice; and,' she added, 'what I have come to talk to monsieur about is not for all the world to hear.'

'What is it, madame?'

'Would you allow me a few moments in private?' asked the little woman; 'there are secrets, you know, which must not be blazed abroad. Perhaps it would not be too great a liberty if I were to whisper a name into your ear. So—' said she, playfully, as he bent towards her, and she raised her lips to his ear; 'Gabrielle! There, you know the name. Well, now a word in privacy. I thought as much. What alacrity, what energy; ah! the master passion, the beautiful passion; it is superb! it elevates man, and it deifies woman!'

Berthier at once conducted the corporal's wife into a small boudoir, and requested her to take a seat. She dropped into a fauteuil, and began to fan herself. The Intendant stood, leaning his arm upon a cabinet, and crossed his legs.

'You may be a diplomatist, you may be a politician of the first ability, you may be a capitalist with the largest income,' said madame, 'but,' and she waved her fan, 'if you do not love, you are nothing.'

'Madame,' asked the Intendant, 'I shall be glad to learn what you know about Gabrielle André.'

'About Gabrielle André,' repeated the little woman; 'quite so; in due time, we are coming to her. Now, what do you take me for?'

'Madame, for the most fascinating specimen of your sex.'

'Quite so. Well, would you believe it, I have a barbarous name, a German-Swiss name, which is a mouthful—a name to tremble at, a name for a horse to shy at, for a dog to bark at, for a cat to set up its back at. And yet I am French at heart. From the tip of my hair to the soles of my feet I am French, French—always French. Hold! There is always something dapper, comely, sweet about a Frenchwoman which you cannot find in the great German frau, who is all fat and lymph, and languor. And the Frenchman, too. He is an object to adore; he is a man sensitive, courteous, gallant; a being to excite the heart, to inspire enthusiasm, to claim devotion; but a German! My faith! I am married, I am sacrificed to a German-Swiss. Do not ask me to describe him; I should expire in making the attempt. The Frenchman is all vehemence, go, fire, and the German is all conscience. But you will tell me that the German has sentiment. I grant you it. But of what nature? It is all of the past, and ours is of the present. We live and palpitate for to-day, the Herr for five hundred years ago. Yesterday is nothing to me; to him yesterday is everything, and to-day is nothing. A German child is to me a wonder; it is not like any French child I ever met. It lives in dreamland, a dreamland peopled with fairies; now a French child cares for no fairies which are not made of chocolate, which it cannot suck.'

'What about Gabrielle?' asked Berthier, impatiently.

'There, now,' said Madame Deschwanden, 'I quite understand about your interest in her. I could not get the same idea into the corporal's head if I were to use a gimlet. But I—I am French, I delight in sentiment, I love intrigue, I worship the noble passion. I can throw myself entirely into your position, and I can feel with you and for you. That is splendid—that is French! Well, then, I say to you, monsieur, you have gone the wrong way to work; you have used wrong methods, you have exhibited barbarous ignorance, you have acted altogether like a German. Where is the delicacy of touch, the subtlety of intrigue, the finesse of action that belongs to one of your nation? I look for it, and I find it not. I repeat it, you have gone the wrong way to work. You have used coarse methods, and you have shown your utter ignorance of the female character. You should not have employed force, that is certain to revolt; you should not have offered a bribe openly, you should have vaguely suggested advantages; you should not have exhibited yourself as a tyrant, you should have acted the martyr. Why!' cried Madame Deschwanden, 'I—I would have rebelled, and spoken, and scratched, and bitten, if I had been blockaded in the brutal, clumsy manner you have adopted in laying siege to Gabrielle. You know absolutely nothing of the art of conducting these little affairs of the heart. Mon Dieu! I—I could have accomplished a triumph in half the time without a quarter of the material.'

'What am I to understand from all this?' asked Berthier, wiping his eyes.

'Understand!' echoed Madame Deschwanden; 'there, again, you exhibit a density of perception perfectly shocking. Allow me to ask you seriously, monsieur, are you a German, or a Swiss? Have you one drop of the tar they call blood crawling through your veins; for if so I give you up, I abandon you, I turn my back on you.'

'Be content,' said Berthier sulkily, 'I am French.'

'And your blood is brandy, volatile, combustible, intoxicating. So be it. I am on your side. Place the matter in my hands, and it is done. I guarantee a surrender in one month.'

'In a month.'

'In a month and a day. Take out your watch, note the time. In one month, one day, and one hour to a minute. See there!' She rapped her fan against her hand triumphantly, and surveyed the Intendant with an air of patronage. 'Never attempt what you don't understand. My faith! you might as well meddle in my millinery affairs as in an affair of the heart, unless you have skill, and that is a gift of nature; it is not every one who is an adept in the science of intrigue. Mon Dieu! I should think not. It requires a delicacy of perception, a fineness of touch, in short, a sensibility which is born with one. You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, a poet is not to be manufactured or made as Nicholas chips and chops his saints. My faith! I should hope not. A successful intriguer is so perfectly constituted that I believe he is the most successful of the works of creation. You could not make a triumph of a cap, try as hard as you might, you would botch it. Mon Dieu! Some lovely construction which consumed me with care and enthusiasm, if you put your clumsy hand to it, would be wrecked. So with an affair of the heart. You cannot do it; you are not equal to it; you were not born to it with that delicacy of perception, that subtlety in feeling, that tenderness in touch, in fine, that sensibility which——'

'Will you come to the point?' said the Intendant, angrily.

'Will I come to the point?' echoed madame. 'Look at him, asking such a question. Behold him, ye gods, and stare. Did you ever see such a man? But one has his gift in this way, and another in that. I have no doubt you are the best of sheriffs, but you are absolutely a neophyte in the art of love-making. Ah—bah! no one could make anything of you. I do not say in ordinary matters of business, in cutting off heads, or breaking on the wheel, or consigning to the Bastille, or marching soldiers here, and ordering gendarmes there, in all that, I grant you; but affairs of the heart are quite different from affairs of state and of commerce. You want, to be successful in them, a delicacy of perception——'

'Enough of that,' said Berthier. 'Come, madame. My time is precious.'

'I will not detain you from the dogs one moment longer,' quoth Madame Deschwanden, pouring a little water from a decanter on the table into a tumbler; 'oblige me with a lump of sugar and a drop of orange-flower water. Thank you. It makes one thirsty to listen to another person talking. Well, as I was saying, you cannot manage this affair yourself, you want my help. You must have my help. And, monsieur, I proffer it with enthusiasm. I cast myself zealously into your cause. I lend my assistance to one who is certain to fail abjectly, to one lacking all the requisites essential to success; for I flatter myself that I possess the qualifications in which he is deficient. I make no boast of it, not I. But if Providence has endowed one person with a delicacy, a finesse, a sensibility, and all that constitute a successful intriguer, it is not boasting if she acknowledges thankfully that she possesses these talents. She cannot be blind to them. If she were blind, she would not use them.'

'In short, you will help me?'

'I will do my best. With me to say that, is to say it is done. I do not boast, but I cannot shut my eyes to facts. If I were to do so, you would call me a fool, and justly. I should be a fool. But I make one stipulation,—no, I make two.'

'What are they?'

'Tell me,' entreated madame, throwing passionate earnestness into her voice and gesture, 'tell me, you have no conscience. I am tired of conscience. My faith! what is conscience? It is a kind of flea; you never know where it is. Now it is here, now it is there. You come down with your finger on the spot, and it is gone. And then there is irritation everywhere, and no rest. My husband is a martyr to conscience, so is Nicholas, but Nicholas is the corporal repeated in miniature. Have morals, I say, have philosophy, but crush conscience; it is a pest. And then, I insist, you leave Gabrielle to me. Do not interfere. Let me manage her. I know the ins and outs of a woman's mind; I will so manage the affair for you that you will be full of gratitude to me, that you will overwhelm me with testimonials of your indebtedness. If you interfere, and send your gendarmes to the house again, then I throw it up. I will have no more to say to it, and you may botch your work again. Will you promise me solemnly to let me conduct operations in my own way? Will you promise me not to interfere by so much as lifting a finger?'

'Wait a bit,' said Berthier; 'before I promise anything, tell me where Gabrielle is now.'

'With the greatest pleasure. You know that she has seen the queen?'

'No!' he started.

'Yes, she has. She has seen her and has been refused.'

Berthier drew a long breath.

'She has been refused, and now she is at Versailles.'

'At Versailles!'

'Yes, monsieur. It seems that she has a friend there, one of the delegates to the National Assembly.'

'To the States-General,' corrected the Intendant.

'To be sure, you are right. Well, she has taken up her abode with him. He was an old friend.'

'What is his name?'

'You will probably know him. He is from Bernay, a curé there. His name is Lindet.'

Berthier nodded, and an angry flush over-spread his brow.

'Now you know very well that you cannot, and dare not, attempt to remove the girl from the house of a delegate at Versailles; so I shall do that myself. I shall draw her to my house; but that will take time, as you have scared her with your gendarmes. My faith! if you want to snare pigeons, do you set up scarecrows near your nets?—but let that pass. I shall do my best to bring her to my house, and whilst she is there, entrust her to me; do not show your face in the neighbourhood, do not let a gendarme be seen within my door, and in one month, one day, and one hour, the girl will rush of her own accord into your arms.'

'I see,' said Berthier. 'Yes, I will trust you, and give you the promise you require.'

'That is your only chance,' pursued Madame Deschwanden. 'And then remember, I have cast myself zealously into your cause, I am enthusiastic on your behalf. But why? True, I am always eager to help forward an affair of the heart. But interest, enthusiasm, zeal, sometimes grow cold; they want hope to keep them alive, and they want something also to kindle them. Will you believe it? I have even been accused of being avaricious. I avaricious,—I who lavish money on my friends and expend it profusely on myself! They say I like money. Mon Dieu! who does not? I do not like it for itself; I hate, I abhor the dirty pelf—but, voilà—one must live.'

'Yes,' said Berthier, 'no one serves another without pay, that is reasonable.'

'Pay, ah bah! never mention such a thing!' exclaimed the lady; 'but among friends there is always an interchange of civilities, you well understand. Ah! fie!' he pressed a few gold pieces into her hand; 'what a rude, rough man you are! In these amiabilities there should be a delicacy, a refinement, an——'

'Never mind,' said Berthier, wiping his eyes; 'remember that you are salaried by me for a certain purpose. Wash that fact in rose-water, dress it up, and present it to your mind in whatever costume pleases you best.'

'You are a shocking creature,' said madame, waving her fan at him; 'I am more than half inclined to play you a trick.'

'Take care how you do so!'

'Do not fear me. Intrigue is a passion with me. I revel in affairs of the heart. Ah, my faith! when you come to deal in concerns of the grand passion! then you rise from being human to being angelic; you soar from pots and gridirons, at which you may be cooking; you tower above caps and bonnets, which you may be constructing; you become a giant. Love is woman's world; she exists in this commonplace earth, she lives in the world of passion. Leave me alone, I know what I am about. But what am I to expect?'

'I promise you a hundred louis.'

'I do not touch money,' said madame, with dignity; 'but anything in the way of jewellery—ah! there you have me.'

'Well, then, you shall have jewels to that value.'

'You are very amiable. You enchant me. Come on, then, to your dogs! I know you desire to return to them, and I—I shall be wanted at home. I wish you a very good morning!'

Madame Deschwanden sailed down the streets with the air of an empress. She held up her head, and her smile and bows were tinged with urbanity, the urbanity of some one who having reached a lofty station condescends to notice her old friends and to shed on them some of the bounties it is now in her power to bestow.

When, in the evening, Percenez returned with Madeleine and Gabrielle, madame overflowed. She listened with impatience to the story of Gabrielle's failure, only interrupting it to inquire how the queen and the princesses were dressed, how they wore their hair, and what ornaments they bore.

Percenez told his sister the difficulty about Gabrielle, and said that he hesitated about sending her alone to Bernay, and that he wished to take a lodging in some other part of Paris, where Gabrielle might be secure from pursuit.

Whilst he spoke, the triumphant expression in his sister's face excited his curiosity. At last he inquired, 'What is it, Louise? I am sure you have some news to communicate.'

'Now see!' exclaimed Madame Deschwanden. 'Am not I a woman? was not I born with tact, with a delicacy, a refinement, a power of intrigue, in a word, a sensibility of the most elevated description? I have this day accomplished a great work. I have secured Gabrielle from all pursuit.'

'You have!'

'Yes, brother Stephen, you may stare. You men know nothing of a woman's resources. I have done single-handed what you and the corporal and Nicholas would not have effected. I have secured for Gabrielle tranquillity in this house. I have paid the Intendant Berthier a visit.'

'Josephine, what madness!'

'I am a woman, Stephen, and a woman has resources. Ah! see what I have done.'

Then she related with infinite zest her interview with Berthier. She concluded her account with the jubilant remark, 'To think that I have utterly deceived him! Superb! The way in which I have twisted him round my little finger! Majestic!'

'But what do you mean, Josephine?' asked Stephen, much perplexed.

'What do I mean?' echoed madame, raising her eyes and hands. 'Oh these men! Well, I will tell you what I mean. I wish I had a hammer to knock it into your head. I have utterly deceived M. Berthier. He confides in me, he believes that he has secured my services. He has given me money, and promised me more, to persuade Gabrielle to cast herself into his arms. Trusting that I am busy undermining the girl's resolution and morals, he will abstain from attempting violence for one month and one day. At the end of that time, trust me, I shall creep round him again, and, when I have exhausted my resources, then I shall give you the signal to decamp.'

'But, my dear sister, what did you mean by telling Berthier that Gabrielle was at Versailles with Lindet?'

'Mon Dieu! it came into my head. It seemed so probable. It entirely deceived the Intendant.'

'And you received money from M. Berthier!'

'If I had not done so, he would have mistrusted me. Now that I have taken his gold, he believes implicitly in me.'

'I do not like this,' said the colporteur; 'my dear sister, you have not acted rightly; you have told falsehoods, and——'

'My faith!' exclaimed madame, with a scream, as she backed her chair across the room; 'you have a conscience, and you my brother! Oh, mon Dieu! that I should have lived to discover it. Étienne, it will never do; catch it, kill it.'

CHAPTER XXIX.

The Court party had concerted a scheme of revenge upon the Commons for their act of the 23rd June. The queen sent for her favourite minister, the Baron de Breteuil. He had been minister of state in 1783, and had had charge of the king's house, an important post, for the lettres de cachet fell to this department. The baron had quarrelled with Calonne, whom the queen detested. That was one reason why she confided in his judgment. Troops were massed about Versailles and Paris; fifteen regiments, for the most part composed of foreign mercenaries, were encamped around the capital. The Royal Cravate was at Charenton, Reinach and Diesbach at Sèvres, Nassau at Versailles, Salis-Samode at Issy, the hussars of Berchenay at the Military School; at other stations were the regiments of Esterhazy, Roemer, &c. There were as many as 30,000 men in and around Paris. Sentinels occupied every bridge, every avenue.

The old Marshal de Broglie received the command in chief, the Baron de Besenval received that of the troops surrounding the capital.

Mirabeau thought that the only sure means of intimidating the court was to discuss publicly the measures which it was adopting. He interrupted the business of the constitution by a proposal that the king should send away the troops.

'Sire,' said Mirabeau, 'in the midst of your subjects, be guarded only by their love.'

He pointed out that every day fresh bodies of soldiers were arriving, that the bridges and promenades were changed into military posts, that the sight of adjutants dashing about with orders and counter-orders despatched from the palace or from the house of the Marshal de Broglie at all moments of the day, gave to the town the appearance of being the seat of war.

'More soldiers are shown us menacing the nation,' said he, 'than would be marched against an invading foe, and a thousand times more than would be assembled to succour friends martyred for their fidelity.'

The address to the king, proposed by Mirabeau, was carried all but unanimously, four voices alone being found to oppose it. The answer of the king was equivocal.

He said that the soldiers were there to preserve tranquillity, and not to intimidate the Assembly, and that if the army caused alarm, he was ready to transfer the States to Soisson or Noyon. With this answer the Assembly was forced to remain content, unsatisfactory as it seemed.

The plans of the queen, the Count d'Artois, the Princes of Condé and Conti, and the Dukes of Polignac and d'Enghien, were now complete. The capital and Versailles were invested, and at a signal the army would fall upon them, and trample under foot all opposition. The last blow had to be struck, and Marie Antoinette was the person to strike it. It was to fall on Necker, the prime minister, whom the Court party detested, and whom it could never forgive for having persuaded the king to summon the States-General, and thus to imperil their supremacy over king and country.

On Saturday evening, July 11th, Lindet was walking with the Abbé Grégoire along the Paris road, beyond the barrier at the end of the Avenue.

'What will happen next?' asked the Curé of Bernay. 'It appears evident that the queen intends a coup d'état, but what it will be no one knows exactly.'

'The time for a coup d'état is passed,' said Grégoire; 'on the twenty-third of last month the decisive blow was struck, and it was struck by the Assembly. Consider, my friend, what can the Court do now? The Assembly represents twenty-five millions of men, the court represents a few thousands. The prestige of royalty burst like a bubble on that day in May. The king is the head of a party, a little miserable party, ranged against the vast bulk of the French people.'

'You forget the army,' said Lindet; 'the court can always summon to its aid brute force to crush right and reason, as it has crushed it for centuries with the same means.'

'I question whether it can now rely implicitly on the army. Remember, the army reflects the condition of France; it has its officers and its privates; the former, the privileged, all nobles; and for the rest, the army is a cul-de-sac, there is no possibility of advance, of promotion. And as we groan under feudalism, so does the soldier cry out under the oppression of his officers, who have cheated him of his pay, have cut short his rations, have bullied and insulted him. If the commoners rise against the nobles, and the curés against the bishops, depend upon it the privates will rebel against their officers. We curés have joined cause with the commons, the soldiers will make common cause with us. And then, where are the privileged with the crown, whose cause they defend?'

'And what do you suppose will be the end?'

'If the king listen to Necker, Mounier, and his followers, they will give to France a constitution on the Anglican model; the movement will stop short at that point. If violence be attempted, we shall rush into pure democracy. I am content either way. Possibly we are not yet prepared for republicanism, and a constitutional monarchy will prove a stepping-stone and halting-place before the final plunge.'

'You desire a pure democracy.'

'I desire to see a constitution in which every officer is responsible to the nation, and every individual member of the nation has an interest in the government. What interest have you or I in the king? Absolutely none. He derives his title to the throne through his blood. Of all farces, an hereditary monarchy is the most absurd. An elective monarchy is different. I should not object to a king, if he were chosen by vote of the people; for authority must be conferred by the nation, and must be removable by the nation, so that no man may be made an irresponsible autocrat. Till the nation and its government are so interwoven in interests and responsibilities, that its organization rests on no fictitious basis, but on the common weal, there must be injustice, and there will be rebellion.'

'Stand back,' said Lindet.

The two priests drew back, as they heard the sound of wheels. The night was dark,—so dark that they stepped into the hedge before they were aware.

Two brilliant lights approached at a rapid rate from Versailles, and the tinkle of the collars of post-horses proclaimed a travelling carriage. The crack of a postilion's whip, the rumble of wheels, and the jingle of bells, drowned the noise of an approaching carriage from the direction of Paris. Almost as soon as the curés were aware that they heard the roll of two vehicles, they met, and their wheels were locked. The shock brought both carriages to a stand-still.

The post-boys of the travelling coach and the driver of the small Paris hackney-carriage dismounted, and abused each other with many oaths and threatening gestures.

'Why, in the devil's name, have you not got lamps?' asked one of the postilions. 'And pray, why did you not steer out of the way of our lights, hey!'

'Was I going to drive into the hedge to please you?' retorted the coachman; 'was I going to upset monsieur to gratify you? Was I going to run the chance of upsetting the barouche to oblige you? hey!'

'Are you going to back your horses, hey?'

'Will you do the same with yours, hey?'

'Not till you do so, hey!'

'Nor I till yours move, hey!'

'I will whip you——'

'You will dare, hey!'

'Hey! but I will.'

'Sacré au nom de Dieu!'

'Mille diables!'

'What are you fellows about?' asked a gentleman, thrusting his head out of the travelling carriage; 'cease quarrelling, and unlock the wheels.'

'Bah! what fellows!' exclaimed a head thrust out of the window of the smaller carriage; 'please to inform me when you are ready to start again. I shall put on my nightcap, and take a nap till you have done.'

The postilion removed the lamp from its place in the carriage, and proceeded to examine the wheels. Lindet stepped forward and volunteered his assistance. The wheels were faster than was anticipated.

'Back the horse, and be damned to you!' said the postilion to the coachman.

'I am backing, you pert jackanapes,' answered the other.

'You are not backing sufficiently,' said the postboy.

'Will you make my mare back till she is black in the face, hey?'

'Yes, I will, hey!'

'Then you won't, hey!'

'I dare you to touch her, hey!'

'You dare! hey!'

'Yes, I do! hey!'

'Now then,' exclaimed the gentleman from the travelling coach; 'I insist on a cessation of this wrangling. Loose the wheels at once.'

'Allow me,' said the gentleman from the Parisian barouche. He leaped out of his conveyance, caught the lantern from the postboy, and suddenly, with such abruptness as not to give the other traveller time to withdraw his head, he turned the full blaze of the lamp upon his face.

His hat was off immediately, and he bowed low.

Grégoire touched Lindet on the arm, and pointed to the illumined face. It was that of Necker.

'Look at the top of the coach,' whispered the abbé; 'it is laden with boxes. He is dismissed.'

Lindet looked. The light was immediately averted.

'You are on your way to the place I have left,' said Necker, in a low voice to the other.

'I have been summoned. But whether to replace you or not I cannot tell yet. Bah! what strange meetings there are in the world!'

'I wish you success where I have failed,' said Necker, still in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

'We shall try different means,' replied the other; 'but——take a pinch!' he extended his box, it was of gold.

Necker declined. 'Well,' said the speaker, emptying some into his palm and applying it thus to his nose; 'we must do our best.'

At that moment another head appeared at the window of the little carriage.

'There's my son-in-law,' said Foulon, for it was he; 'just awake. He has been snoring all the way from Paris. Berthier, my boy, brisk up. Here is——'

'Hush, hush! for Heaven's sake,' exclaimed the ex-minister; 'it is most important that nothing should be known of my departure.'

'All right, sir!' said the coachman, approaching Foulon.

'All right at last, is it? Very well. Good evening, monsieur.' He returned to his carriage.

'Will you drive against me again, hey!' shouted the coachman, when he had mounted the box.

'I would do so a thousand times, hey!' yelled the postboy, leaping on his horse.

'You lie, you gherkin!' called the coachman, gathering the reins into his hand.

'You are drunk, you pumpkin!' cried the postboy, cracking his whip.

'A thousand devils! say that again, hey!' roared the driver as the vehicles passed.

'Till death's day. I repeat it. Hey!'

'Shrimp!' bellowed the coachman, turning in his seat and shouting over the back of the carriage.

'Flounder!' called the postilion over his shoulder.

When the two carriages were out of sight, Grégoire turned to Lindet, and said, 'the court has committed suicide. The queen has prevailed upon the king to dismiss Necker, and now she is about to form a ministry after her own heart. Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat.'

Lindet was too much overwhelmed with amazement and dismay to answer.

'In twenty-four hours,' continued Grégoire, 'Paris will explode, and blood will flow. The result of this stroke of policy is certain. Paris will be in arms to-morrow, and the court will take the opportunity of pouring upon the city in revolt its troops of mercenaries. It may succeed; the nascent revolution may be strangled by the iron grasp of the military, and then recommences the reign of tyranny. It may fail, and then the people are lashed into fury, and will not spare the conquered. The stroke is bold.'

'What is to be done?'

'Do not breathe a word of what you have seen. It is just possible that the king may be turned again. I shall go to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld. Ah! how different he is from the cardinal! he has influence with his majesty. Merciful God! we shall have blood flowing in streams in a few hours.'

Lindet thought for a moment. Then he said, hesitatingly, 'it is one's duty to use every possible means of preventing bloodshed. Shall I seek out my bishop? He is the queen's chaplain, a proud, worldly man, but no fool. He might persuade her to recall this precipitate step, if he were to see the case in the true light.'

'By all means visit him,' said Grégoire; 'no time is to be lost. We are both weak vessels, but God may enable us to stave off a terrible disaster. I desire a republic with all my heart, but, in God's name, let it not be brought about by bloodshed and anarchy.'

They separated at the foot of the steps leading to the palace gates.

Numerous oil-lamps illumined the court of the ministers, and into this Lindet penetrated without difficulty. Having inquired his way to the apartments of the prelate, he mounted the stairs to the corridor in which they were situated, and was shown by a valet into the bishop's sitting-room.

De Narbonne-Lara was not then in his chamber, but the priest was told that he would return to it directly; his wax candles were burning on the table, and his pen was laid upon the paper, still wet with ink, on which he had been writing.

Lindet stood and waited patiently for him. He had not spoken to him since he had been inhibited,—he had scarcely seen him since he had been elected deputy in the place of the bishop and the bishop's candidate. A meeting must prove disagreeable to himself and to the prelate, but it was worth while to undergo it, for De Narbonne, from his acquaintance with German, was believed to stand high in the queen's favour, and to influence her conduct. That violent measures must produce a popular rising was so evident, that he hoped the prospect of the terrible misery which must ensue, when placed clearly before the bishop, would induce him to bend the queen to moderation.

Presently Lindet heard voices in the corridor; and next moment the door opened, and a lacquey ushered in the bishop, Foulon, and Berthier.

Monseigneur stared in mute astonishment at the curé.

Foulon recognised him at once, and addressed him—'Ah, ha! our clerical friend from Bernay. How is the little charmer? I hear she is with you now. Oh that I could buy of you the secret of making love-phylters! Actually, my Lord, the curé exerts such a charm over the bewitching little peasantess, that she has been unable to endure Bernay without him, and has followed him to Versailles.'

'Monsieur,' said Lindet, indignantly, 'a gentleman should not lend his tongue to lie.'

'Excuse me, my good curé; we quite know that you do not wish it to be generally known, and you may rely on my keeping my counsel, but that the girl is with you in your lodgings here, you will hardly have the audacity to deny.'

'I deny it most solemnly.'

'What brings you here?' asked the bishop. 'This is a great impertinence.'

'I particularly desire to speak privately with your lordship.'

'I do not choose to waste my time on you.'

'Monseigneur, I beseech you hear me. You have treated me with great injustice and severity, and I will not deny that I have harboured bitter feelings against you. You must know that it is no pleasure to me to find myself in a presence which has never proved agreeable to me. It is only by an effort that I have overcome my repugnance, and have come here to speak to you.'

'What do you want?' asked the bishop; 'your presence is quite as distasteful to me as mine can be to you.'

'I wish to speak in private.'

'I will not listen to you in private; say what you have to say here.'

'I adjure you, my Lord, give me ten minutes in private.'

'On what subject have you come to visit me? Is it of a private nature?'

'No, my Lord.'

The bishop requested Foulon and Berthier to be seated.

'If not of a private nature, I suppose you to mean to intimate that you desire to talk politics with me?' He threw up his head and spoke contemptuously, as he settled himself into an arm-chair.

'I desire, my Lord, to speak to you in private, and shall not leave this room till you have granted me the interview that I request.'

'That you demand,' said the bishop. 'Well, I have suffered so much from your insolence, that a grain more will not crush me. Follow me.' He rose and led the way haughtily into a cabinet; bowing first to Foulon and Berthier, and requesting them to excuse his absence for a moment.

'I will trouble you to bring a candle,' said De Narbonne; 'I have no desire to be closeted with you in the dark.'

Lindet returned to the table, and, taking up one of the wax lights, followed the bishop with it into the apartment.

'Now, sir,' said the prelate, throwing himself into a fauteuil, 'tell me at once your business, and then begone!'

'Monseigneur,' Lindet said, earnestly, 'I am ready to submit to you in anything without a murmur. I am ready to make to you an apology for having irritated and annoyed you. I will readily and on my knee ask your pardon for any pain I may have caused you, if you will only listen to me with patience for a few moments.'

'I am ready,' answered the prelate, the severe, sullen look fading from his brow; 'submission comes late, but better late than never.'

'Monseigneur,' continued Lindet, 'the subject on which I have come to speak is of public importance. I know that you, my Lord, have the ear of her majesty the queen.'

'Well,' said the bishop, 'I will not deny it; her most gracious majesty is pleased to listen to and to act upon the advice I, her most unworthy servant, tender to her.'

'I know well, also, my Lord, that the influence exercised by the queen upon the king is paramount, and consequently you have in your power the welfare of the nation.'

'Well,' said De Narbonne, every cloud disappearing from his face, 'perhaps you exaggerate a little; but let that pass, we will for the moment suppose it so. Proceed, my good sir.'

'My Lord, at the present instant the fate of France hangs on the turn of the scale; a feather may incline the balance one way or the other.'

'Possibly you are right,' said the bishop.

'M. Necker has been dismissed.'

'Indeed! how do you know that?'

'Never mind how, my Lord, but I do know it. As soon as the news of the change of ministry reaches Paris, the city will be in arms, and not Paris only, but every large town in France will rise. You cannot rely upon the French guard, they are certain to fraternize with the people; the events of the last few days must convince you of that. You know how that only ten days ago the people broke into the prison of the Abbaye, and liberated some dozen soldiers who had been thrown there for having sworn to obey no orders contrary to those of the Assembly. You know that a body of hussars and dragoons was sent against the people, and that they refused to draw their swords upon them, but drank with the mob the health of the nation. Perhaps you may not know, monseigneur, that privates and officers of the French guard are heart and soul with the people, that secret societies have been formed amongst them long ago, and that disaffection has spread also to the regulars. You can only rely on the Swiss and German mercenaries. Monseigneur, if Necker be not immediately recalled, there will be civil war in France,—a civil war between the French people and their brothers the French soldiery on one side, and the Court and its hired foreigners on the other. Are you prepared for this?'

The Bishop of Évreux was uneasy. He knew that what the curé said was true, but the prospect was one he did not like to contemplate in all its nakedness.

'You overrate my influence,' he said.

'At a moment like the present, every one should use what little influence he has to avert a terrible disaster. Pray, my Lord, face the consequences of this mad action for one moment, and consider whether it is not worth your while at all hazards to strain every nerve to undo it before it has produced its effects,—to stamp out the match before it has exploded the barrel of gunpowder into which it has been cast. My Lord, you, if you withhold your voice, will be responsible for the blood which will flow in torrents.'

'Monsieur Lindet,' said the bishop, gravely, but with his hands twitching, for he was frightened, 'sometimes the surgeon has to cut deep to heal a deadly disease. Even supposing the worst were to come to pass which you anticipate, and which God avert! it may be the means of restoring tranquillity to France.'

'My Lord, place the consequences before your eye in every light. A rebellion in Paris is inevitable. The union of the French guard with the insurgents is also inevitable. What is the next step? The military will be ordered to fall on Paris, and drive the people and the guard before them, perhaps bombard the city, certainly cut down and trample under their horses' feet the innocent as well as the guilty. You know, my Lord, that this could not be done without the king's consent. Now, can you calculate with certainty on his majesty giving orders for the massacre of his subjects? If you can, then well and good, the plan will succeed, at all events for a time. But if the king hesitate for only a few days,—if he refuse to permit the exercise of coercive measures on so terrible a scale, then the game is lost, you have roused the whole of France to madness, have forced the whole of the French people to take up arms, you will probably find that the French soldiers will side with them, and the whole of the old framework of the constitution will go down with a crash, and bring crown, coronet, and mitre under its ruins.'

The bishop turned a little pale, and his hands trembled.

'You exaggerate the consequences,' he faltered out.

'Monseigneur, your own common sense, your clear perception of the state of public feeling at the time, must convince you that I do not exaggerate. You,—no, I will not say that,—the Court is resolved on using force to cut the Revolution short.'

The bishop would not speak.

'Yes, my Lord, it is so. Remember, the success of your venture entirely depends on the king permitting the exercise of force. Can you calculate on that?'

De Narbonne started up. His haughty manner had disappeared before the prospect opening upon him. He had been one of the most urgent in his advice to try the appeal to arms. He had never considered the chance of the king refusing to permit their being turned against the people. Knowing, as he well did, the kindness of the heart of Louis XVI; knowing that with all his feebleness of purpose, and readiness to yield to the opinion of the last speaker, he was conscientiously stubborn against violence; knowing that even that very day he had refused to allow the ex-minister to be arrested and sent to the Bastille, though this had been urged by the queen herself, the bishop saw now for the first time that the rock on which the Court scheme was in danger of being wrecked, was the goodness of the king's heart.

The bishop looked at the curé and mused. Lindet said no more.

After a protracted silence, De Narbonne said, in a low voice: 'It is too late; the die is cast.'

He led the way into the other room.

As Lindet bowed his farewell, the bishop held out his hand to him, and said, 'Thank you.'

When the door closed upon the curé, he returned to the table at which Foulon and Berthier were seated, and said:—'The new ministry will have to be composed without me; I am resolved not to serve.'

CHAPTER XXX.

On Sunday morning, July 12th, Nicholas persuaded Madeleine and Gabrielle to attend high mass at the church of S. Eustache, for the altar of which he had carved a figure of the Blessed Virgin and Child; and, as he considered this his masterpiece, he was exceedingly anxious that the little Normandy girl should see it. He had thrown out vague hints on several previous occasions, but Madeleine had put them aside at once; on this occasion she yielded, to the great delight of Nicholas, whose round face beamed with satisfaction, which he also expressed to Gabrielle by sundry friendly nods behind his sister's back.

Gabrielle had completely won the young man's heart by her delicacy in refraining from joining the two other women in their chorus of disparagement of Werner Stauffacher, Erni of Melchthal, Walter Fürst, the great Tell, and, above all, of the illustrious Bruder Klaus. Nay, further, she had actually listened to the story of Arnold von Winkelried, without remonstrance, and she apparently derived real pleasure from hearing the old corporal prose over his reminiscences of Switzerland.

'What a magnificent country it must be!' said the girl once to Nicholas.

'Magnificent!' echoed the young man, throwing up his hands; 'oh, mademoiselle, you really must see it some day.'

After mass, and after that Nicholas had pointed out all the principal excellencies of his statue to Gabrielle, who tried hard to see them, in order to please him, they left the church.

'And now,' said Madeleine, 'we have come this long trudge to gratify you, let us go to the Palais Royal and visit my aunt Louison for my pleasure. Gabrielle has never seen the gardens, and, now that we are so close to the palace, we may just as well go on there. I propose we have some refreshment at one of her tables, and then saunter into the gardens of the Tuileries.'

'Very well,' said Nicholas, joyously; 'the day is so beautiful, I shall be delighted. Ah! it will be only too charming.'

'You have become all at once very obliging,' said Madeleine, bluntly.

They made their way to the Palais Royal, where Madame Louison, Madeleine's aunt, kept a restaurant. M. Louison, in a white apron, white jacket and white cap, stood at the head of the staircase, which descended to the kitchen, before which was a bar, with liqueurs and syrups, presided over by madame.