which, straggling and far apart, looked like two unfortunate hounds coupled together against their will, and eternally struggling to get away from each other. Such was the chaise roulante which stood at the gate of the Palace, ready to convey the prisoner to Paris.

The preparations that had been made for De Blenau’s journey to Chantilly, now served for this less agreeable expedition; and the various articles which he conceived would be necessary to his comfort, were accordingly disposed about the vehicle, whose roomy interior was not likely to suffer from repletion.

It is sad to say farewell to any thing, and more especially where uncertainty is mingled with the adieu. Had it been possible, De Blenau would fain have quitted St. Germain’s without encountering the fresh pain of taking leave of his attendants; but those who had seen his arrest, had by this time communicated the news to those who had remained in the town, and they now all pressed round to kiss his hand, and take a last look of their kind-hearted Lord, before he was lost to them, as they feared, for ever. There was something affecting in the scene, and a glistening moisture rose even in the eye of the old Count de Thiery, while De Blenau, with a kind word to say to each, bade them farewell, one after another, and then sprang into the carriage that was to convey him to a prison.

The vehicle rolled on for some way in silence, but at length De Blenau said, “Monsieur de Thiery, you must excuse me if I am somewhat grave. Even conscious rectitude cannot make such a journey as this very palatable. And besides,” he added, “I have to-day parted with some that are very dear to me.”

“I saw that, I saw that,” answered the old soldier. “It was bad enough parting with so many kind hearts as stood round you just now, but that was a worse farewell at the end of the terrace.—Now out upon the policy that can make such bright eyes shed such bitter tears. I can hardly get those eyes out of my head, old as it is.—Oh, if I were but forty years younger!”

“What then?” demanded De Blenau, with a smile.

“Why, perhaps I might have ten times more pleasure in lodging you safe in the Bastille than I have now,” answered De Thiery. “Oh, Monsieur de Blenau, take my word for it, age is the most terrible misfortune that can happen to any man; other evils will mend, but this is every day getting worse.”

The conversation between De Blenau and his companion soon dropped, as all conversation must do, unless it be forced, where there exists a great dissimilarity of ideas and circumstances. It is true, from time to time, Monsieur de Thiery uttered an observation which called for a reply from De Blenau; but the thoughts which crowded upon the young Count were too many, and too overpowering in their nature, to find relief in utterance. The full dangers of his situation, and all the vague and horrible probabilities which the future offered, presented themselves more forcibly to his mind, now that he had leisure to dwell upon them, than they had done at first, when all his energies had been called into action; and when, in order to conceal their effect from others, he had been obliged to fly from their consideration himself.

A thousand little accessory circumstances also kept continually renewing the recollection of his painful situation. When he dropped his hand, as was his custom, to rest it upon the hilt of his sword, his weapon was gone, and he had to remember that he had been disarmed; and if by chance he cast his eyes from the window of the carriage, the passing and repassing of the guards continually reminded him that he was a prisoner. De Blenau was new to misfortune, and consequently the more sensible to its acuteness. Nor did he possess that buoyant spirit with which some men are happily gifted by nature—that sort of carelessness which acts better than philosophy, raising us above the sorrows and uncomforts of existence, and teaching us to bear our misfortunes by forgetting them as soon as possible. He had too much courage, it is true, to resign himself to grief for what he could not avoid.—He was prepared to encounter the worst that fate could bring; but at the same time he could not turn his thoughts from the contemplation of the future, though it offered nothing but dark indistinct shapes; and out of these his imagination formed many horrible images, which derived a greater appearance of reality from the known cruelty of Richelieu, in whose power he was, and the many dreadful deeds perpetrated in the place to which he was going.

Thus passed the hours away as the carriage rolled on towards Paris. It may be well supposed that such a vehicle as I have described did not move with any great celerity; and I much doubt whether the act-of-parliament pace which hackney-coaches are obliged to adhere to, would not have jolted the unhappy chaise roulante limb from limb, if it had been rigorously enforced. But it so happened that the machine itself was the personal property of Monsieur de Thiery, who always styled it une belle voiture; and looking upon it as the most perfect specimen of the coach-building art, he was mighty cautious concerning its progression. This the postilion was well aware of, and therefore never ventured upon a greater degree of speed than might carry them over the space of two miles in the course of an hour; but notwithstanding such prudent moderation, the head of Monsieur de Thiery would often be protruded from the window, whenever an unfriendly rut gave the vehicle a jolt, exclaiming loudly, “Holla! Postillon! gardez vous de casser ma belle voiture;” and sundry other adjurations, which did not serve to increase the rapidity of their progress.

Such tedious waste of time, together with the curious gazing of the multitude at the State-prisoner, and uncertain calculations as to the future, created for De Blenau a state of torment to which the Bastille at once would have been relief; so that he soon began most devoutly to wish his companion and the carriage and the postilion all at the Devil together for going so slowly. But, however tardily Time’s wings seem to move, they bear him away from us notwithstanding.—Night overtook the travellers when they were about a league from Paris, and the heaviest day De Blenau had ever yet known found its end at last.

Avoiding the city as much as possible, the carriage passed round and entered by the Porte St. Antoine; and the first objects which presented themselves to the eyes of De Blenau, after passing the gates, were the large gloomy towers of the Bastille, standing lone and naked in the moonlight, which showed nothing but their dark and irregular forms, strongly contrasted with the light and rippling water that flowed like melted silver in the fosse below.

One of the guards had ridden on, before they entered the city, to announce their approach; and as soon as the carriage came up, the outer drawbridge fell with a heavy clang, and the gates of the court opening, admitted them through the dark gloomy porch into that famous prison, so often the scene of horror and of crime. At the same time, two men advancing to the door, held each a lighted torch to the window of the carriage, which, flashing with a red gleam upon the rough stone walls, and gloomy archways on either side, showed plainly to De Blenau all the frowning features of the place, rendered doubly horrible by the knowledge of its purpose.

A moment afterwards, a fair, soft-looking man, dressed in a black velvet pourpoint, (whom De Blenau discovered to be the Governor,) approached the carriage with an official paper in his hand, and lighted by one of the attendant’s torches, read as follows, with that sort of hurried drawl which showed it to be a matter of form:—

“Monsieur le Comte de Thiery,” said he, “you are commanded by the King to deliver into my hands the body of