behalf, and that they wrote the narrative from the lips of the maître d’hôtel (who indeed may clearly be traced throughout).  It seems also that the gold cups were chalices, and that a complete set of altar equipments fell a prey to the Cabeleyzes, whose name the good fathers endeavour to connect with Cabale—with about as much reason as if we endeavoured to derive that word from the ministry of Charles II.

Had I known in time of the assistance of these benevolent brethren I would certainly have introduced them with all due honour, but, like the Abbé Vertot, I have to say, Mon histoire est écrite, and what is worse—printed.  Moreover, they do not seem to have gone on the mission with the Marabout from Bugia, so that their presence really only accounts for the Te Deum with which the redeemed captives were welcomed.

It does not seem quite certain whether M. Dessault was Consul or Envoy; I incline to think the latter.  The translation in the Catholic World speaks of Sir Arthur, but Mr. Scott’s ‘M. Arture’ is much more vraisemblable.  He probably had either a surname to be concealed or else unpronounceable to French lips.  Scott must have had some further information of the after history of Mademoiselle de Bourke since he mentions her marriage, which could hardly have taken place when Père Comelin’s book was published in 1720.

C. M. YONGE.

CHAPTER I—COMPANIONS OF THE VOYAGE

   ‘Make mention thereto
Touching my much loved father’s safe return,
If of his whereabouts I may best hear.’

Odyssey (Musgrave).

‘Oh! brother, I wish they had named you Télémaque, and then it would have been all right!’

‘Why so, sister?  Why should I be called by so ugly a name?  I like Ulysses much better; and it is also the name of my papa.’

‘That is the very thing.  His name is Ulysses, and we are going to seek for him.’

‘Oh!  I hope that cruel old Mentor is not coming to tumble us down over a great rook, like Télémaque in the picture.’

‘You mean Père le Brun?’

‘Yes; you know he always says he is our Mentor.  And I wish he would change into a goddess with a helmet and a shield, with an ugly face, and go off in a cloud.  Do you think he will, Estelle?’

‘Do not be so silly, Ulick; there are no goddesses now.’

‘I heard M. de la Mêde tell that pretty lady with the diamond butterfly that she was his goddess; so there are!’

‘You do not understand, brother.  That was only flattery and compliment.  Goddesses were only in the Greek mythology, and were all over long ago!’

‘But are we really going to see our papa?’

‘Oh yes, mamma told me so.  He is made Ambassador to Sweden, you know.’

‘Is that greater than Envoy to Spain?’

‘Very, very much greater.  They call mamma Madame l’Ambassadrice; and she is having three complete new dresses made.  See, there are la bonne and Laurent talking.  It is English, and if we go near with our cups and balls we shall hear all about it.  Laurent always knows, because my uncle tells him.’

‘You must call him La Juenesse now he is made mamma’s lackey.  Is he not beautiful in his new livery?’

‘Be still now, brother; I want to hear what they are saying.’

This may sound somewhat sly, but French children, before Rousseau had made them the fashion, were kept in the background, and were reduced to picking up intelligence as best they could without any sense of its being dishonourable to do so; and, indeed, it was more neglect than desire of concealment that left their uninformed.

This was in 1719, four years after the accession of Louis XV., a puny infant, to the French throne, and in the midst of the Regency of the Duke of Orleans.  The scene was a broad walk in the Tuileries gardens, beneath a closely-clipped wall of greenery, along which were disposed alternately busts upon pedestals, and stone vases of flowers, while beyond lay formal beds of flowers, the gravel walks between radiating from a fountain, at present quiescent, for it was only ten o’clock in the forenoon, and the gardens were chiefly frequented at that hour by children and their attendants, who, like Estelle and Ulysse de Bourke, were taking an early walk on their way home from mass.

They were a miniature lady and gentleman of the period in costume, with the single exception that, in consideration of their being only nine and seven years old, their hair was free from powder.  Estelle’s light, almost flaxen locks were brushed back from her forehead, and tied behind with a rose-coloured ribbon, but uncovered, except by a tiny lace cap on the crown of her head; Ulick’s darker hair was carefully arranged in great curls on his back and shoulders, as like a full-bottomed wig as nature would permit, and over it he wore a little cocked hat edged with gold lace.  He had a rich laced cravat, a double-breasted waistcoat of pale blue satin, and breeches to match, a brown velvet coat with blue embroidery on the pockets, collar, and skirts, silk stockings to match, as well as the knot of the tiny scabbard of the semblance of a sword at his side, shoes with silver buckles, and altogether he might have been a full-grown Comte or Vicomte seen through a diminishing glass.  His sister was in a full-hooped dress, with tight long waist, and sleeves reaching to her elbows, the under skirt a pale pink, the upper a deeper rose colour; but stiff as was the attire, she had managed to give it a slight general air of disarrangement, to get her cap a little on one side, a stray curl loose on her forehead, to tear a bit of the dangling lace on her arms, and to splash her robe with a puddle.  He was in air, feature, and complexion a perfect little dark Frenchman.  The contour of her face, still more its rosy glow, were more in accordance with her surname, and so especially were the large deep blue eyes with the long dark lashes and pencilled brows.  And there was a lively restless air about her full of intelligence, as she manoeuvred her brother towards a stone seat, guarded by a couple of cupids reining in sleepy-looking lions in stone, where, under the shade of a lime-tree, her little petticoated brother of two years old was asleep, cradled in the lap of a large, portly, handsome woman, in a dark dress, a white cap and apron, and dark crimson cloak, loosely put back, as it was an August day.  Native costumes were then, as now, always worn by French nurses; but this was not the garb of any province of the kingdom, and was as Irish as the brogue in which she was conversing with the tall fine young man who stood at ease beside her.  He was in a magnificent green and gold livery suit, his hair powdered, and fastened in a queue, the whiteness contrasting with the dark brows, and the eyes and complexion of that fine Irish type that it is the fashion to call Milesian.  He looked proud of his dress, which was viewed in those days as eminently becoming, and did in fact display his well-made figure and limbs to great advantage; but he looked anxiously about, and his first inquiry on coming on the scene in attendance upon the little boy had been—

‘The top of the morning to ye, mother!  And where is Victorine?’

‘Arrah, and what would ye want with Victorine?’ demanded the bonne.  ‘Is not the old mother enough for one while, to feast her eyes on her an’ Lanty Callaghan, now he has shed the marmiton’s slough, and come out in old Ireland’s colours, like a butterfly from a palmer?  La Jeunesse, instead of Laurent here, and Laurent there.’

La Pierre and La Jeunesse were the stereotyped names of all pairs of lackeys in French noble houses, and the title was a mark of promotion; but Lanty winced and said, ‘Have done with that, mother.  You know that never the pot nor the kettle has blacked my