Pauline clasped her hands and burst into tears: but amongst the attendants of De Blenau, who during this conversation had one by one mounted the steps of the terrace, there was first a whisper, then a loud murmur, then a shout of indignation, and in a moment a dozen swords were gleaming in the sunshine.

Old De Thiery laid his hand upon his weapon, but De Blenau stopped him in his purpose.

“Silence!” cried he in a voice of thunder; “Traitors, put up your swords!—My good friends,” added he, in a gentler tone, as he saw himself obeyed, “those swords, which have before so well defended their master, must never be drawn in a cause that De Blenau could blush to own. Monsieur le Comte de Thiery,” he continued, unbuckling his weapon, “I thank you for the handsome manner in which you have performed a disagreeable duty. I do not ask to see the lettre de cachet, which, of course, you bear; for in giving you the sword of an honourable man, I know I could not place it in better hands; and now, having done so, allow me to lead her Majesty to her carriage, and I will then follow you whithersoever you may have commands to bear me.”

“Most certainly,” replied De Thiery, receiving his sword; “I wait your own time, and will remain here till you are at leisure.”

De Blenau led the Queen to the carriage in silence, and having handed her in, he kissed the hand she extended to him, begging her to rely upon his honour and firmness. He next gave his hand to Pauline de Beaumont, down whose cheeks the tears were streaming unrestrained. “Farewell, dear Pauline! farewell!” he said. Her sobs prevented her answer, but her hand clasped upon his with a fond and lingering pressure, which spoke more to his heart than the most eloquent adieu.

Madame de Beaumont came next, and embraced him warmly. “God protect you, my son!” said she, “for your heart is a noble one.”

Mademoiselle de Hauteford followed, greeting De Blenau with a calm cold smile and a graceful bow; and the rest of the royal suite having placed themselves in other carriages, the cavalcade moved on. De Blenau stood till they were gone. Raising his hat, he bowed with an air of unshaken dignity as the Queen passed, and then turning to the terrace, he took the arm of the Count de Thiery, and returned a prisoner to the Palace.

CHAPTER II.

“WELL, Sir,” said De Blenau, smiling with feelings mingled of melancholy resignation to his fate and proud disdain for his enemies, “imprisonment is too common a lot, now-a-days, to be matter of surprise, even where it falls on the most innocent. Our poor country, France, seems to have become one great labyrinth, with the Bastille in the centre, and all the roads terminating there. I suppose that such is my destination.”

“I am sorry to say it is,” replied his companion. “My orders are to carry you thither direct; but I hope that your sojourn will not be long within its walls. Without doubt, you will soon be able to clear yourself.”

“I must first know of what I am accused,” replied the Count. “If they cry in my case, as in that of poor Clement Marot, Prenez le, il a mangé le lard, I shall certainly plead guilty; but I know of no state crime which I have committed, except eating meat on a Friday.—It is as well, perhaps, Monsieur de Thiery,” continued he, falling into a graver tone, “to take these things lightly. I cannot imagine that the Cardinal means me harm; for he must well know that I have done nothing to deserve ill, either from my King or my country. Pray God his Eminence’s breast be as clear as mine!”

“Umph!” cried the old soldier, with a meaning shake of the head, “I should doubt that, De Blenau. You have neither had time nor occasion to get it so choked up as doubtless his must be.—But these are bad subjects to talk upon: though I swear to Heaven, Sir Count, that when I was sent upon this errand, I would have given a thousand livres to have found that you had been wise enough to set out last night for some other place.”

“Innocence makes one incautious,” replied De Blenau; “but I will own, I was surprised to find that the business had been put upon you.”

“So was I,” rejoined the other. “I was astonished, indeed, when I received the lettre de cachet. But a soldier has nothing to do but to obey, Monsieur de Blenau. It is true, I one time thought to make an excuse; but, on reflection, I found that it would do you no good, and that some one might be sent to whom you would less willingly give your sword than to old De Thiery. But here we are at the Palace, Sir. There is a carriage in waiting; will you take any refreshment before you go?”

The prospect of imprisonment for an uncertain period, together with a few little evils, such as torture, and death, in the perspective, had not greatly increased De Blenau’s appetite, and he declined accepting the Count de Thiery’s offer, but requested that his Page might be allowed to accompany him to Paris. The orders of Richelieu, however, were strict in this respect, and De Thiery was obliged to refuse. “But,” added he, “if the boy has wit, he may smuggle himself into the Bastille afterwards. Let him wait for a day or two, and then crave of the gaoler to see you. The prison is not kept so close as those on the outside of it imagine. I have been in more than once myself to see friends who have been confined there. There was poor La Forte, who was afterwards beheaded, and the Chevalier de Caply, who is in there still. I have seen them both in the Bastille.”

“You will never see the Chevalier de Caply again,” replied De Blenau, shuddering at the remembrance of his fate. “He died yesterday morning under the torture.”

“Grand Dieu!” exclaimed De Thiery; “this Cardinal Prime Minister stands on no ceremonies. Here are five of my friends he has made away with in six months. There was La Forte, whom I mentioned just now, and Boissy, and De Reineville, and St. Cheron; and now, you tell me, Caply too; and if you should chance to be beheaded, or die under the torture, you will be the sixth.”

“You are kind in your anticipations, Sir,” replied De Blenau, smiling at the old man’s bluntness, yet not particularly enjoying the topic. “But having done nothing to merit such treatment, I hope I shall not be added to your list.”

“I hope not, I hope not!” exclaimed De Thiery, “God forbid! I think, in all probability, you will escape with five or six weeks imprisonment: and what is that?”

“Why, no great matter, if considered philosophically,” answered De Blenau, thoughtfully. “And yet, Monsieur de Thiery, liberty is a great thing. The very freedom of walking amidst all the beauties of the vast creation, of wandering at our will from one perfection to another, is not to be lost without a sigh. But it is not that alone—the sense, the feeling of liberty, is too innately dear to the soul of man to be parted with as a toy.”

While De Blenau thus spoke, half reasoning with himself, half addressing his conversation to the old soldier by his side, who, by long service, had been nearly drilled into a machine, and could not, consequently, enter fully into the feelings of his more youthful companion, the carriage which was to convey them to Paris was brought round to the gate of the Palace at which they stood. Figure to yourself, my dearly beloved reader, a vehicle in which our good friend, the Giant Magog, of Guildhall, could have stood upright; its long sides bending inwards with a graceful sweep, like the waist of Sir Charles Grandison in his best and stiffest coat; and then conceive all this mounted upon an interminable perch, connecting the heavy pairs of wheels,