Front matter (continued 8)

"Accompany the bearers whither they take you, without fear. Halima."

"Where is Madame?" he asked the servant.

"I do not know, Sir," the man replied respectfully, "she left home some hours ago, and has not yet returned."

Then he added, "The messengers await you, Sir, in a coach below."

Wondering, half sleepily, what would happen next, and caring little, for he had lost all hope, St. Just followed the servant to the door and stepped into the carriage, which, the rapid glance he gave it showed him, was a private one. Two Bow Street runners got in after him, and immediately the coach was driven off at a rapid trot. In a quarter of an hour, they reached the toll bar at Hyde Park Corner. The gate was opened at their approach, the coachman shouted something, and, without stopping they drove through. Ten minutes later, the carriage drew up before a house in Downing Street. St. Just was requested to get out, and his companions in his drive each thrust an arm through one of his and led him up the steps in front of the house, then up a flight of stairs and into a square room on the first floor. It was dimly lighted, for only one candle was burning on a table; so that St. Just could not see much of his surroundings; but he could distinguish folding doors on the side of the room that faced him.

The men asked him to be seated; then took their stand between him and the door. From beyond the folding doors, he could hear the hum of conversation and, amongst the voices, he fancied he could distinguish Halima's. He strained his ears and was now sure of it. Then, at any rate, no harm was meant to him.

Presently he heard the clock of the neighboring Horse Guards strike the fourth quarter, and then One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He must have slept for many hours, then, at the house at Earl's Court.

Hardly had the last stroke died away, when the folding doors were opened, and Mr. Pitt, the Prime Minister, the Prince Regent, and, to St. Just's surprise, Halima entered the apartment. They were followed by a secretary. Plainly the Prince had not been to bed, for he was still habited in the uniform he had worn at dinner the night before; he still looked as if he had dined—or drunk "not wisely, but too well."

He ogled Halima, who gave him back a saucy glance; then he whispered something in the ear of Mr. Pitt, who told the "runners" to withdraw and wait outside the door.

Then Mr. Pitt, in a pleasant tone and courteous manner, asked St. Just to draw up to them and take a seat. The Regent seated himself on one side of a long table near the end, and Halima took a chair that faced him, the Premier placing himself at the top. The secretary took a place a little lower down, away from them.

"Mons. St. Just," said Mr. Pitt, addressing him, "your action in this matter does you credit. Madame, your wife, has informed me of your scruples in giving up the papers entrusted to you by your Government. In the circumstances they were natural; but I think you will find it to your advantage—in fact it seems to me your only course—now to follow our instructions and advice."

"Quite the only course; very much to your advantage; much obleeged to you," hiccoughed the Regent, at this point, with a hazy idea that he was forwarding the proceedings.

Mr. Pitt glanced at him contemptuously and went on: "The letters you sent us by Madame," and he pointed to a packet on the table, "have been copied. They will be duly delivered at their destination—Mr. Perry's—by Madame's servant"—he meant Mahmoud—"whom, we understand, Mr. Perry knows; therefore no suspicion will be aroused. The copies that have been made of them you will deliver in person to our Admiral, Lord Nelson. With that object you will be shipped on board H.M.S. La France"—seeing the look of surprise on St. Just's face—"a French vessel recently captured in the channel. You will have to run the gauntlet of whatever French ships may be found between here and Gibraltar, not far from which, I fancy, Lord Nelson will be met with. You may wonder why you have been selected for this mission, so I will satisfy you. We believe the despatches you brought from Paris to be genuine, to mean what they say. But, sometimes, such documents are penned and despatched in order that they may be seized by the enemy and so mislead him—to lead him into a trap. It, therefore, seems desirable to make you the messenger to Lord Nelson. If the information given here"—and he tapped the packet with his finger—"should be false, the Admiral will know how to deal with you."

This was pleasant hearing for St. Just. It seemed possible that he had escaped being shot as a traitor by French bullets, only to swing from a British yard-arm as a spy. But, for the moment, he said nothing; Mr. Pitt proceeded, "To be frank with you, you will be a hostage for the genuineness of your despatch. Now that you realize the position, perhaps you would like to express your opinion of the reliability of these documents. It might save us anxiety and yourself this voyage—and, perhaps—your neck, for the Admiral is a strict disciplinarian."

St. Just did realize the position; it was as clear as daylight.

"I can only say in reply to that," rejoined St. Just, "that I have not an idea what the despatch contains, nor whether it was written to mislead, or not. For the last eighteen months I have been imprisoned at Vincennes, and not a word of what took place in Europe during the whole time reached my ears. Three days ago I was released and sent here with these papers, and ordered to remain in England, awaiting fresh instructions. I know no more."

"I thoroughly believe you, Mons. St. Just," replied the Premier. "For all that, we like to be on the safe side; and I fear you will have to take this voyage. The papers are ready for Mons. St. Just, Mr. Sidney?" he wound up interrogatively to the Secretary.

"They are, Sir," was the reply.

St. Just sat sad and stupefied. Once more, he had no sooner rejoined his wife than he was to be torn away from her. Fate was indeed cruel to him.

Now Halima had so represented matters as to make it appear that he had betrayed his trust and voluntarily handed over the papers to the English Government; but with a show of opposition to protect himself from Napoleon's vengeance, should it come to his ears, and he, St. Just, fall into the Emperor's hands. But he had no mind to lie under such an imputation, and was on the point of making a vehement protest, and explaining that he was no party to Mr. Pitt's being in possession of the papers; that he had been robbed of them; when Halima, reading his intention in his face, first silenced him with a look, and, then getting up, went round to him. "Henri!" she murmured cooingly. Her accents brought back to him the memory of days of love and dalliance spent together in the luxurious house at Cairo; of nights out in the desert under the starlit sky; of moments when they had been in peril of their lives, and they two had been all in all to one another. His name, now uttered by her in her softest tones, that breathed of love, thrilled him from head to foot, and sent the blood leaping through his veins. The words he had meant to utter remained unspoken.

"Henri," she laid her hand gently on his arm, "be silent, if you love me. I read your thoughts. You would tell them how the papers reached their hands; that you had no part in the transaction. If you value your liberty, your life—and mine, for your death would be also mine—say nothing. It will not alter their resolve to send you. At present, they have trust in you; do nothing to destroy that trust. Even as it is, they have some little doubt, though I have worked hard for you.

"I pray that Buonaparte, in making you the bearer of despatches to his agents, has not played you false; for if aught is wrong, and they are a mere ruse, the English will shoot you like a dog. So be warned by me, chéri, for my sake, if you care not for yourself; for I cannot lose you. But there is no time for more. Farewell, my dearest. May Allah bring you safely to me again."

During this short murmured conversation, the others had withdrawn somewhat from St. Just and Halima, and were discussing something in low tones together, and signing papers. Halima glanced at them, and, seeing that she was unobserved, bent forward swiftly, and kissed him lightly and noiselessly on the cheek; then slid back rapidly to her seat.

St. Just sat motionless. He felt like one suddenly launched into the middle of a dream, in which all sorts of impossibilities and incongruities and anachronisms are jumbled up together, and yet, to the dreamer, have the semblance of reality and rationality. His brain was in a whirl. All the resolutions and fidelity to Napoleon, formulated in his cell at Vincennes, had taken wing, at the touch of a woman's hand, at the music of a woman's voice, at the imprint of a woman's lips. He scarcely knew what was going on about him.

He was roused from his reverie by the opening of one of the folding doors and the entrance of a young officer in the uniform of a Hussar. The young man bowed respectfully, but without servility, to the company; then, bringing his spurred heels sharply to attention, he stood erect awaiting orders. The Prime Minister addressed him in a clear, incisive tone, "Captain Anson, you will convey this gentleman," indicating St. Just, "and the papers with which you will be entrusted to Commander Fergusson of H.M.S. La France, now lying off Shoreham. You will travel as fast as your escort can cover the ground, for it is imperative that you reach the ship before twelve o'clock, at which hour she is to sail. It is vital that Mons. St. Just shall embark in her. You will, therefore, guard him carefully and hand him over with these papers to Captain Fergusson."

The officer bowed, and Mr. Pitt went on:—"The Regent has placed at your disposal one of his private traveling carriages. You will show this," handing him a paper, which he and the Regent had signed and stamped with the Royal Arms, "to all postmasters and others, so that you may take precedence of every one in the choice of horses.

"What escort did you bring?"

"Twenty men, Sir, in accordance with the instructions in your letter to the Colonel. I received his orders soon after six this morning, and I left Hounslow almost immediately."

"Egad, Sir, that is not bad work," put in the Regent, who, all this time, had been whispering to Halima.

"Take every care of Mons. St. Just," resumed the Premier. "Treat him with all courtesy and instruct Captain Fergusson to do the same. You will ride in the carriage with him, and will not permit him, on any pretext, to communicate with any one on the way. I have nothing more to add."

He bowed to Captain Anson; then leaned back in his chair.

The Regent pulled out his watch. "Damnation!" he exclaimed, "it's close on eight o'clock. Ah! I thought so." At that moment the Horse Guards clock began to strike that hour. "You must ride hard, gentlemen. You've sixty-two miles to cover in four hours. Come, I've done Brighton in the time; and you won't be stopped—except by highwaymen; but those gentlemen mostly work by night."

He laughed, and, leaning forward, began to recount an adventure of his own, in which a highwayman had figured, when he had been stopped upon the Brighton Road. But, while he was talking, the Hussar, bowing comprehensively all round, had led his prisoner from the room; the last thing they heard, as they paced the corridor, being the coarse laugh of the Regent and the words, "Damnation, impudent, eh, Pitt? Truth, upon honor; egad what impudent——"

The words died away, and, in a few seconds, St. Just found himself in the traveling carriage—a royal one. It was beautifully padded and with springs so carefully adjusted that, even on the roughest road, the jolting was almost imperceptible. Four horses were harnessed to it.

The royal-liveried postilions glanced curiously at their unusual "fares," the door was banged to, the escort surrounded the carriage, and then, at a word from the grizzled sergeant in command, the cavalcade set out.

CHAPTER II.

Headed by a portion of their escort, they started at a rapid trot, wheeled round the corner of Downing Street, then past the Houses of Parliament and across Westminster Bridge, and on to where the Brighton Road begins.

Soon they had passed the outskirts of the metropolis and were in the open country. Then they put on a spanking pace, over hill and down dale, the horses galloping on every level stretch of road and down all safe descents, and even up gentle rises. The carriage oscillated from side to side, with the speed at which they were traveling, but there was little jolting, for in those days the Brighton Road was famous for its high condition, and was as smooth almost as a billiard table.

Their first halting place was the White Hart at Reigate, where they stopped for a change of horses. Here Captain Anson left the carriage and, after placing a soldier at each door with orders to prevent St. Just from leaving the carriage or speaking to any one, returned almost immediately, followed by the obsequious landlord with a basket, a welcome sight to the prisoner in the carriage, who was famishing.

The escort were, after resting their horses, to return to their barracks at Hounslow, for it would have been impossible for the men, without remounts, to accompany the carriage all the way. Captain Anson ordered two of the troopers to mount to the box; then, all being ready, they rattled off again with their fresh team.

There was a bottle of wine in the basket, and certain appetizing viands, and, under their influence, the tongues of both the occupants of the carriage became unloosed; for, up to this time, there had been little conversation. But now Captain Anson, in particular, became quite talkative, relating many amusing anecdotes and giving St. Just an insight into fashionable life in London in the Regency. Thus the time occupied between Reigate and Crawley sped by without their noticing it, so that they reached the latter village when they thought that they had but just cleared the outskirts of Red Hill.

When they drew up before the George, the officer frowned, for, just in front of them, was another post-chaise; while, from the inn yard, some fresh horses were being led out.

Then St. Just heard the sound of angry voices in altercation. "Ah!" thought he, "a dispute about the horses, no doubt;" and in this he was correct. Next, some one tried to approach the carriage, but this the two troopers placed on guard prevented. The fresh team was quickly harnessed, and the carriage moved on again. In passing the inn door, St. Just noticed on the doorstep a swearing, gesticulating figure he well knew. It was Perry, the hosier of the Strand. For the first time since the commencement of his journey St. Just was glad to get away, for he had no wish to be recognized by his London friend; the circumstance would certainly have been communicated to Paris.

"Poor old chap," laughed Anson, while they were making the steep ascent leading to Hand Cross village, "I'm afraid we've upset him vastly, in borrowing his horses. He made no end of a hubbub and swore I should not have them, without your personal command."

"Mine?" asked the other in surprise; "What did he know about me?"

"Why?" laughed Captain Anson; "seeing the Royal carriage and liveries he thought the Regent was inside; the more so when I showed him my authority. It was all I could do to keep him from coming to the carriage to pay his respects to the Prince, whom, he said, he knew. I had to tell him that his Royal Highness was asleep, and that I would not permit him to be disturbed. I don't know who the fellow is, but he said he had important business with one Stephen Dumbell at Bolney, and that he must see him before noon; that all sorts of awful things would happen, if he didn't. I'm afraid Stephen Dumbell will have to possess his soul in patience, until his friend procures another team."

St. Just laughed too, but only in a half-hearted way, for Perry's appearance had filled him with uneasy thoughts. Again it came to him what an egregious act of folly it had been, his not having delivered his despatch before seeing Halima. Then all that had since happened, and his present predicament would have been avoided. It was possible, nay probable, that his dereliction of duty would have wide-spreading consequences; might even change the whole current of affairs in Europe. And why should Perry be leaving England so suddenly, for that he, like them, was making his way to Shoreham, St. Just felt certain.

He was glad to learn that Perry was unknown to Captain Anson, and he kept his own knowledge of him to himself.

Meanwhile the carriage rattled on; now descending at a breakneck pace the long decline that led to the pretty little hamlet of Bolney; then on past the Cross Roads, leaving on the right the road to sleepy Cowfold and the more active and larger, but hardly less old-fashioned Horsham.

On they dashed, past the grand old mansion of Hickstead, at that time approached, as was that of Cuckfield, by a fine avenue of trees, most of which have long disappeared, together with the monks who planted them.

On, on, on, and now it was in verity a race with time. Captain Anson thrust his head out of the carriage window. "Faster, faster!" he cried to the postillions. "A guinea each, if we arrive in time."

And, in answer to his appeal, the men plied vigorously whip and spur to the panting, sweating horses; and soon they were tearing long as fast as they could gallop over the bridge that spans the river Arun hard by Lancing. On, on, they sped and, at last, Shoreham loomed in view.

Then, when their goal was all but reached and Captain Anson, after consulting his watch, had fallen back to his corner with a sigh of relief and a smile of satisfaction, for he saw that he would be in time; a serious mishap occurred. With a sudden jerk, the carriage came to a stop, and the occupants found themselves violently thrown forward and involuntarily jostling one another. In an instant, Anson was on his feet and shouting to the postilions from the window. But a glance sufficed to show him what had happened; the two leaders were down; they had fallen from sheer exhaustion—galloped to a standstill. The two that remained upon their legs were trembling in every limb, and so bathed in sweat that they might have been swimming a river.

Captain Anson was terribly upset; it looked as though, just when success seemed within his reach, he was to be foiled. But he was a man of energy and not easily daunted; he would use every means to discharge his trust—so much depended on it; not only to his country, but to himself.

"Two of the horses are down," he said to his companion. "I must ask you to get out, Mons. St. Just." He had already decided what to do.

St. Just at once did as requested.

Then, issuing his orders with decision, the officer told the two soldiers on the box to descend and guard St. Just. The postilions were already on their feet. These he told to unharness the two shaft horses, and to remove the riding saddle and bridle from one of the leaders that had fallen, but were now once more on their legs, and replace them on the shaft horse that was without them. All this was done almost by the time he had given his orders. Then he carefully examined the two saddled horses to see which, in his judgment, was the stronger and swifter of the two. Indicating the other, he addressed St. Just. "Kindly mount, Mons. St. Just," he said. "We shall have to complete our journey on horseback. Excuse my want of ceremony, but time is pressing."

The Frenchman made no difficulty; he realized the futility of opposition; so he placed his foot in the stirrup with alacrity, and, the next instant, was in the saddle. Captain Anson had been watching him, and saw at a glance, that he was quite at home on horseback.

"You are used to riding, Mons. St. Just," he said pleasantly.

"I have had plenty of practice as an aide-de-camp under General Buonaparte," was the reply.

Captain Anson then rapidly gave instructions to the postilions and soldiers to follow on to Shoreham with the post-chaise so soon as the two horses should have rested sufficiently to be harnessed to it. Then he turned again to St. Just.

"Plain speaking between soldiers is the best, Monsieur," he said. "Let me call your attention, therefore, to the fact that I am better mounted than yourself and that I carry a brace of loaded pistols. Should you attempt to make your escape, I will shoot you without the least demur. I trust you will not impose so painful a duty on me."

St. Just laughed. "You will not require to use your pistol, Captain Anson. I am not absolutely devoid of sense. I am at your service."

They gave their horses rein and started at a brisk trot, but soon warmed up into a canter.

It was ten minutes to the hour when they sighted the cruiser, which was anchored just outside the harbor mouth. They were now almost alongside the harbor, and Captain Anson was looking anxiously about for a means of reaching the La France; and luck befriended him. A fishing boat, within hail, was floating lazily with the tide towards the harbor mouth.

"Boat ahoy!" cried Anson.

"Aye, aye, Sir," came the cheery answer.

"In the King's name. Five guineas, if you put us on board yonder cruiser before she sails."

"Done!" shouted the hardy fisherman, who was at the tiller, and he soon brought the little craft alongside where the two men stood, for by this time they had dismounted.

The horses were given in charge of a custom house official, with instructions to await the officer's return, and then they stepped aboard the boat.

"Look alive, man," said Captain Anson; "put in all you know; that vessel must not sail before we board her."

"Never fear, we'll do it, Sir," replied the sturdy boatman, and he and his two mates quickly put the boat about. There was a stiff nor'wester blowing, and the tide was with them, so that the clumsy craft began to make fair way; but every now and then she dipped her nose into the surf-capped rollers that marked the harbor bar, sending showers of brackish spray into the faces of the passengers, and, in fact, all over them, so that they soon were drenched to the skin. But little recked one of them of this; all that he cared for was to reach the vessel.

Nearer and nearer they approached her, and now were almost close upon her. They could hear the sharp tones of the officers shouting their commands; could hear even the creaking of the capstan, as inch by inch the anchor was being dragged up from its muddy depths; and also the voice of the musical Jack who was singing to give the men the time, which he himself took from the notes of an indifferently played fiddle.

Captain Anson placed his hands to his mouth and bawled, "Ship ahoy! Despatches!" Then suddenly he removed them. "By God, she is moving," his voice rising almost to a shriek; "she is under weigh."

And indeed she was, her sails beginning to belly out in the freshening breeze.

"Aye, aye," muttered the old boatman at the helm, quite calmly, "but she'll tack yet, to let the wind take her down channel. You'll see, Sir, we shall manage it."

He put the helm hard over, and the fishing vessel, answering, swung round and was brought up by the side almost under the cruiser's bows.

"Ship ahoy!" yelled the fisherman.

"In the King's name, despatches," shouted Anson, springing to his feet and waving the papers above his head, and almost falling overboard in his excitement.

"All right," was shouted in reply; "Come on board as sharp as you can." A tow rope was flung over the craft, and deftly caught and made fast to her by the fisherman, who then pulled her alongside the cruiser.

St. Just waited for a second or two, when the heave of the sea, that lifted him almost to the shrouds, gave him his opportunity. Quickly grabbing a second rope, he clambered up hand over hand and landed safely upon the cruiser's deck.

Not so the debonair Hussar. Unused to the position, he made his leap just a shade too late, and got drenched to his skin in consequence.

A gray-haired, bushy whiskered man of forty-five came up to him the moment that he touched the deck.

"I am Captain Fergusson," he said. "You say you have despatches for me, Sir. You were only just in time; and I must start at once, for I cannot lose the tide."

"I am Captain Anson," replied the other, "—th Hussars." Then he continued, politely, and looking every inch a gentleman, despite his drenched appearance—the water was streaming from him, and making little pools about him—"My orders are to hand over to you, yonder gentleman"—pointing to St. Just, who was standing motionless, gazing absently at the roofs of the little town that seemed, with the motion of the vessel, to be bobbing up and down—"with instructions that he is to be guarded carefully and allowed to hold no communication with anyone but yourself; consistently with that, he is to receive every consideration. These papers will tell you all.

"This," handing the Captain a large, blue, official-looking envelope, "contains your sailing orders; and this, despatches for the Admiral." He passed the various documents to Captain Fergusson, who replied:

"I need scarcely say, Captain Anson, that the instructions here contained will be obeyed to the very letter. And now you must have a glass of Nantz, after your wetting."

"I thank you," replied Anson, "but it is impossible. I dare not detain you; and I, too, must return immediately."

He shook hands with the Captain, and then turned to St. Just, and held out his hand. "Good-bye, Mons. St. Just, and Au revoir. I wish you good luck, I trust you will forgive me for what may have appeared harshness in my manner. It was not in my heart; but merely a necessity of the performance of my duty. I hope in the future we may meet as friends in more congenial circumstances."

He smiled pleasantly, as indeed he might; so far as he was concerned, everything had turned out satisfactorily.

St. Just took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. "No excuse whatever is called for, Captain Anson," he replied; "you performed an uncongenial task with every courtesy."

Then Captain Anson swung himself overboard and lowered himself by a rope into the fishing-boat. She cast off and, at once, began tacking for the shore, St. Just watching her till she disappeared into the harbor.

Captain Fergusson glanced rapidly over his new instructions, and gave the necessary orders; and, not till the little vessel was fairly on her course, did he give his attention to St. Just.

Then he approached him. "For the time it seems I am to be your jailer, Mons. St. Just. I will make things as pleasant and comfortable as I can for you, consistent with your safe custody; but I shall have to confine you to your cabin and place an armed sentry at your door. Except for two hours' exercise daily on the poop, you will have to spend all your time there. If you care to read, I can supply you with some books."

St. Just bowed. "I am in your hands," he said. "I cannot complain; it is the fortune of war. But one thing I should like to ask; how long is my confinement likely to continue?"

"About three weeks, I fancy; but it depends upon wind and weather."

"And my destination?"

Captain Fergusson gave a peculiar laugh. "Ah! that I cannot say," he said. "Sims," to an officer standing near, "conduct this gentleman to the middle cabin on the port side of the upper deck, and place a marine at the door."

He bowed to St. Just, to signify that the interview was ended, and then walked away to his cabin to con more carefully the orders he had received. They were brief and simple, but their very brevity and simplicity gave him food for thought.

The envelope was addressed:—

"To Commander Fergusson H.M.S. La France."

The contents were as follows:—

"Sir,

"We commit to your charge a Buonapartist, Mons. St. Just, taken with the accompanying despatches from the French Government. You will deliver him and them to Admiral Lord Nelson, last heard of in Lat. —— Long. ——.

"If the Admiral find the information in the papers trustworthy, Mons. St. Just is to be brought back to England. If not, let Lord Nelson deal with him as the bearer of false news in time of war deserves.

Signed: George, Prince Regent. ——, First Lord of the Admiralty. W. Pitt, First Lord of the Treasury and Prime Minister.

And this shall be your warrant for what you do."

Meanwhile St. Just had been conducted to his cabin, a narrow room about ten feet long and from six to eight in width; its furniture a bunk, a chair and a seaman's chest, empty except for washing requisites of the commonest description, the lid forming a table in the daytime. The cabin was lighted by a small port hole.

This then was to be his abode for the next three weeks—or more, and then—? The reflection made him shudder. He knew his fate depended on the truthfulness of the despatches taken from him—or rather on their result.

The hours seemed to drag on terribly. For a change, he paced about his little cabin; then he threw himself upon his bunk and tried to sleep; and, at last, succeeded.

How long he slept he did not know, but it was dark when he awoke, aroused by the opening of his door. Someone came in with a lantern, which he hung up on an iron hook in the rafters overhead. Then he laid some books upon the sea chest. It was Sims, the officer who had brought him to the cabin.

Following him was a sailor with a tray, on which were a bottle of rum and a glass, some cold pork, ship's biscuits, butter, and sundry other eatables, as well as knives and forks. He placed the tray upon the sea chest and then withdrew.

"Halloa! hors de combat?" said Sims, thinking St. Just's position due to mal de mer. "You'll get used to the sea in a day or two, and then you'll be all right."

St. Just sat up, his eyes blinking in the lamp light.

"It's not sea sickness I'm suffering from," he laughed, "but cabin sickness. The appointments here can scarcely be called luxurious, and I find my own company the reverse of cheerful."

"Anything else you want?" asked Sims who, St. Just thought, seemed a pleasant, hearty fellow.

St. Just laughed again. "Now what a question to ask a prisoner," he said.

"Well, I'd give you your liberty, old fellow, if I could; but short of that?"

"You are very good. To begin with then, what I most want is a change of clothing and a pipe."

"The last I can manage on the spot; as to the first, I'll talk to the Captain about it, and we'll see what we can do."

He put his hand into his pocket and brought out his own pipe and some tobacco, and these he handed to the captive.

St. Just's eyes glistened at the sight.

He grasped the proffered articles with avidity and thanked the donor with effusion.

After a little further talk, the young officer was obliged to leave him. Then St. Just became conscious that he was hungry; so he fell to upon the pork and biscuits. The fare was coarse, and the biscuits were desperately hard, and he had to hammer them into little pieces with the handle of his knife.

But, on the whole, he made an excellent meal, for what was wanting in the quality of the food was made up by appetite in himself. Then came the crowning luxury of the pipe. He smoked three. Then he turned into his berth, and so finished his first day on board the English cruiser, which was spinning merrily on her way towards Cadiz. She averaged ten knots an hour, for the wind was with them, and the Captain had crowded on her all the sail that she could carry.

For St. Just, one day was much like another, and he found the hours drag slowly, in spite of the companionship of his pipe. The one pleasure he looked forward to was his two hours' daily exercise on deck. The sight of the dancing waves and the blue sky overhead, and the smell of the fresh salt breeze, seemed to instill him with new life, but it made him long for his liberty all the more.

Once the La France had a narrow escape of being captured. A large French brig was sighted in the distance and, at once, gave chase; she began rapidly to overhaul them. When the Frenchman was within gunshot, Captain Fergusson was not long in knowing it; the ball struck the sea only a few yards on their starboard side. The disparity in the size of the two ships was such that the only alternatives of the English one's escaping capture were, either to be able by smarter seamanship to dodge the Frenchman, or that an English ship should come to their assistance. Captain Fergusson knew the importance of his reaching the British Admiral, and this added to his anxiety; it may even be said it was its sole cause. Eagerly he scanned the distance, the compass round, on the chance of sighting a vessel that flew the Union Jack; but not a sail of any sort could he discover, save that which was bringing the Frenchman ever nearer. St. Just was enjoying his interval of exercise while the chase proceeded, and watched with great excitement the distance between the two vessels lessening.

Gradually the brig gained on them, and ever and anon a shot ploughed up the sea all round the gallant little cruiser; but, so far, she had not been struck. Captain Fergusson, for all he knew that a contest could practically have but one result, was resolved to fight before hauling down his flag. So he had the deck cleared for action, and the cannon shotted. Then, with a look of desperate resolve, he calmly waited. Nothing it seemed could save him.

But, all at once, the tension on his face relaxed, and his eye brightened; a chance he had not reckoned in his calculations was to befriend him. Looking southward, in the opposite direction to the brig, he noticed that the air was becoming hazy. His practiced eye informed him what it was—a sea mist. If they could only hold on long enough, they would run into it, and so be lost to the view of their pursuer.

"By God!" he cried excitedly to the First Lieutenant, "if only we can get into that fog we shall give the Frenchman the slip."

At that moment a shot struck the little vessel on the taffrail, but did no serious damage, and no one on board was hit. It was the last, for, soon afterwards, the La France ran into the mist and was lost to sight.

This was the only exciting incident during St. Just's stay on the cruiser. After this, day succeeded day with unvarying monotony, until the morning of the 20th of October in this eventful year of 1805. Then Captain Fergusson sighted in the distance the English fleet. It was bearing down towards them in two lines, one led by Nelson in the Victory, the other by Collingwood in the Redoubtable.

When within signalling distance Captain Fergusson ran up the Union Jack, following it with the private signal. This having been acknowledged, the flags went up to signify that he had despatches and a prisoner.

Gradually the little vessel neared the fleet, and, when she was within hailing distance of the Victory, a voice rang out:

"Captain Fergusson to come on board with prisoner and despatches."

Forthwith he proceeded to St. Just's cabin, where the Frenchman lay asleep. "Sorry to disturb you, Mons. St. Just, but we are in the middle of the English fleet, and I have orders from the Admiral to take you on board at once; so please dress as speedily as you can."

A few minutes' rowing, and they were alongside the Victory, the eyes of every one on deck upon them; for the news had gone about that there were tidings of the allied French and Spanish fleets, and all were longing to be at them. St. Just slowly mounted the gangway. At its head stood an officer in uniform, whom Fergusson addressed as Captain Hardy. Captain Hardy took him apart and told him that he was to go with him at once to the Admiral; so, after giving orders to an officer to watch St. Just, the two proceeded to Lord Nelson's cabin.

Soon afterwards, many captains of other vessels in the fleet were signalled to come on board, and the ship was kept in a continual bustle by their arrival in quick succession. Then long and earnest deliberations went on below. Meanwhile St. Just remained standing on the poop, well guarded, and the object of great curiosity on the sailors' part. It was said that he was a spy who had been captured. He scarcely noticed the glances leveled at him, for he had plenty to occupy his mind. For aught he knew, he was within a few minutes of his death. No wonder he looked pale and anxious.

After some time, a midshipman approached, with instructions that he was to follow him. He was conducted to Lord Nelson's cabin.

At first, to the Frenchman's unaccustomed eyes, the gloom was such—for there was no light, but that which struggled through the port-holes—that he could scarce distinguish the persons gathered in the room; but his sight quickly accommodated itself to the partial light. Then he noticed a long table, down each side of which were seated naval officers in full-dress uniform. In the center, his back supported against a bulkhead, was a small, spare man, with a thin, worn face and a large nose, and grizzled hair. Like the other officers, he was in full uniform, and it was noticeable that his right sleeve was empty and looped up to a button hole of his coat. His left breast glittered with stars and orders. One side of his face was turned to an officer at his left, and he was whispering something to him behind his hand. The eye turned towards St. Just was scarred and sightless. St. Just did not need to be told that the man before him was the redoubted English Admiral, Lord Nelson.

The Admiral turned to St. Just and asked him: "Do you know the contents of the despatches of which you are the bearer?"

The Frenchman drew himself up to an erect position and saluted in military fashion.

"I do not, Sir," he replied promptly.

"Detail how you became possessed of them."

Every eye was turned keenly on St. Just, as though to read how far he spoke the truth.

Calmly and deliberately he related the circumstances; how that, having been imprisoned for so long, he had been offered his liberty, provided he delivered these despatches to a Buonapartist agent in London; how that he had not been given the least inkling of what was in them, nor any oral message for the agent. Then, mindful of Halima's injunctions, he went on to say that he had shown the papers to his wife, who had taken then to the Prime Minister. He could tell the Admiral nothing more.

There was a moment's silence, and then an elderly officer at the end of the table laughed.

The Admiral turned upon him sharply, "Well, Sir?"

The answer came with equal promptness and in a powerful brogue.

"My Lord, 'tis a foine wit the fellow has. But, be jabers, Oi, for one, will not be believing the truth. If the French fleet—bad cess to 'em—meant to sail from Cadiz, wouldn't they have kept it quiet; and would they have let this information fall into our hands, except for the purpose of misleading us as to their rale intentions?"

No one spoke audibly for a moment, but a low murmur went round, and it soon became evident that the old sailor's opinion had several supporters. One or two, indeed growled audibly:—

"Well spoken, Temeraire."

The Admiral raised his empty sleeve and flapped it to and fro, then spoke:

"Fergusson, you have had the best opportunity of judging how far this gentleman is to be believed. What is your opinion?"

Like most jailers, who are not naturally cruel, Fergusson had a protective sentiment towards his late prisoner; so he replied:

"I have had no means of testing his truthfulness, my Lord. On the other hand, I have no cause to doubt it."

"Oi should trice the rascal to the yardarm, Sir," interposed the Irish officer who had previously spoken.

"What say you, Hardy?"

"I say, do nothing till after the battle. It would be murder."

The Admiral smiled pleasantly. His flag-captain's opinion coincided entirely with his own.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I believe these despatches to be genuine; that they were not meant to fall into our hands. At any rate, I intend to act upon the information they contain. I am confident that to-morrow's dawn will witness the defeat of another Armada; that, once more, the brave hearts of English sailors will win a glorious victory for our country."

Further speech on the Admiral's part was prevented by the entrance of a midshipman. The youngster saluted Nelson and then laid before him on the table a pencilled note:

"The enemy's fleet is sighted.

"Collingwood."

The words were read out, and then followed a burst of cheering.

The Admiral reached his hat and moved from his seat. To the midshipman who had just entered he said, "Remove this gentleman to Midshipman P's cabin" (that to which Nelson was afterwards carried when he had received his death wound, and in which he died). Then he addressed St. Just, "If I win to-morrow's battle, Sir, I pledge my word of honor to land you in England, in return for this day's service. If I fail and find that I have been led into a trap by your despatches—Well—" And he threw him a warning look.

Stupefied and with a sinking heart and without a word, St. Just bowed to the Admiral and retired. Then the midshipman took charge of him and conducted him to the cabin indicated, a gloomy hole lighted only by a small window giving on to the alley way. Here he sat for hours in solitude.

Later, towards night, the occupant of the cabin came in, and the prisoner ventured to ask him whether he knew what in the despatches was the information that had been considered so important.

"You don't know?" was the reply. "Well, the report is that an English correspondent of the French Government gave information to Boney of the strength and destination of our fleet; and that the French Admiral undertook to send us to the bottom and then come to the assistance of the invasion army at Boulogne. The despatch you handed to our Government, it is said, acknowledges the receipt of the agent's intelligence and asks for later news, at the same time disclosing the intended movements of the French fleet."

"Phew!" breathed the Frenchman, and began to perspire profusely.

He had little dreamed of the momentous issues involved in the miscarriage of the despatch, and he trembled at the magnitude of the disaster he foresaw.

"I'm for sleep," resumed the midshipman; "perhaps the last I shall enjoy in this life. There will be bloody work to-morrow, and for many of us, both French and English, the coming dawn will be the last."

With that, he turned into his bunk, and was almost immediately asleep. But St. Just sat on in gloomy silence. There was no sleep for him that night.

And the next day was that memorable 21st of October, 1805, when the most glorious of England's many naval victories was won.

St. Just took no share in it, so that its recital forms no part of his history. Cooped up, as he was, all day in the narrow, ill-lighted cabin, except for the deafening booming of the cannon, and the concussion when the shots from the Frenchmen struck the ship, he knew nothing of the progress of the battle; or which side was gaining in the encounter. But in his enforced idleness, expecting every minute to be sent to the bottom of the sea, his misery and suspense were such, that even death itself would almost have been welcome.

But his solitude was broken in upon in a way he had little dreamed of. He heard the sound of shuttling feet outside; then the door was thrown open and some sailors entered, bearing in their arms the dying Admiral.

His eyes fell upon St. Just, and, for all his agony, he was not forgetful of his promise. He turned to one of the officers and pointed to the Frenchman. "I have given my word that that gentleman shall be landed in England safe and sound. See to it that I do not die forsworn."

And, so soon as might be, the promise was performed.

CHAPTER III.

Nearly four years had passed since St. Just was present, as an auditor rather than as a spectator, at the battle of Trafalgar; and it was now towards the end of June, 1809. He had landed in England after that battle, in December of the same year, and had thenceforth made it his home, at such times as he was not upon his travels—and they had been fairly numerous.

About midnight on a certain day in this same month of June, a post-chaise was being driven rapidly along the road that led from Paris to St. Cloud.

Seated in it were two persons. One was a venerable looking old man with a white beard; the other a man not much past thirty, but looking almost middle-aged, and with the stamp of care and melancholy on his features. The first was the old man Abdallah, who had accompanied Halima in her journey from the desert to the shores of France, and had since established himself in Paris as a jeweler. His companion was St. Just, but so changed in looks that his former friends would not have known him. It was not hard work—though he had been no sluggard in the interval—that had wrought this transformation, but the preyings of an uneasy mind; disappointment, shame, remorse, self-contempt, and, later, jealousy, had kept him without a moment's peace and added two decades to his looks. Major St. Just, the aide-de-camp of Buonaparte, had been a well-set, muscular young fellow, with a bright brown eye and the glow of health upon his cheek; full of life and ardor, with a springy step, and having the soul of honor. Captain Henri, the English spy, was gray and shriveled, his face all scored with lines, his eyes dull and shifting, shrinking from the glance of his fellow men, his visage shrouded with a veil of gloom and sadness; and he walked with the slow, uncertain gait of a man who seeks to shuffle by without attracting notice. Still, for one on the weather side of fifty, he would have been deemed by those who had not known him in his better days, a handsome man, for his features were well-molded and refined.

During the four years, or nearly so, that had elapsed since he had left Paris, a Buonapartist agent on the mission, which had culminated in his presence, as a prisoner, at the battle of Trafalgar, his life had been a chequered one, and, more than once, he had been in the direst peril.

Halima had sent him here and there and everywhere, according to her whim, and he had not dared refuse. In fact he had been little more than her messenger. The usual relations between wife and husband had in their case been reversed. It had been her part to issue orders, his to execute them. He had seen but little of her, for he had been almost always journeying, and might almost as well have had no wife. Once or twice he had feebly attempted to rebel, but she had quickly cowed him into submission by the threat of breaking off all relations with him.

She had become more masterful than ever, more restless and excitable and more active and determined in her plots against Napoleon; she was, indeed, the moving spirit amongst the conspirators. For all that, in her husband's absence, she found time for her amours, and indulged in them with all the passion and abandon of her nature.

She had despatched her husband—the news of his presence at the battle of Trafalgar had leaked out, and it was confidently reported to the French Government that he had met his death there—on many secret expeditions; for instance, he had gone as the accredited agent of the English Government to Spain and Austria; he had had interviews with persons trusted by the "Man of Destiny," but who had revealed to him secrets of the highest political importance; he had even gone so far afield as the United States.

Many a strange tale could Fouché's agents have narrated of a certain Jules Durand—one of St. Just's pseudonyms—who had had long interviews with their Chief, and had made numerous journeys between France and England, his real character and personality being unsuspected.

And Halima, though her headquarters were in England, had made several flying visits to the Continent, in the prosecution of her schemes. On one occasion, at the very time that the Emperor Alexander was being entertained by Napoleon with imperial magnificence, she, in the person of a certain Mademoiselle de Deauville, interviewed the Russian Emperor, when the subject of his attitude towards England was discussed, and negotiations, that resulted in the subsequent alliance of the two Powers, were begun. Plot after plot was foiled, but still she was not daunted, every failure seeming only to strengthen her resolve and the bitterness of her animosity towards the Emperor of the French.

But to return to the occupants of the post-chaise, which was speeding through the darkness as fast as horses could lay hoof to ground.

On the seat opposite to them was a small box. The older man was endeavoring to dissuade the other from some course on which he seemed strongly bent.

"Be advised by me, Monsieur," he said, laying his hand persuasively on the other's arm; "do not move further in this matter. Let me order the postilions to turn their horses' heads again towards Paris. It is for your own sake I ask it."

"Pish! Abdallah," replied St. Just impatiently, "you waste your words; it is useless to attempt to turn me from ray purpose; I have taken my decision and will go through with it. Besides, do you suppose that, when I show to Josephine the proofs of her husband's design to divorce her and marry this Austrian Archduchess, she will flinch? No, rest assured that we shall gain our ends—at least I shall. For what other purpose, indeed, can she have appointed this meeting with me to-night?"

The Empress Josephine had given him many tokens that she was not indifferent to him, and, complimented by her notice, he had conceived for her a sort of passion; not such a passion as he had for Halima—for, had Halima remained true to him, he would not have given a thought to Josephine; and even now, his wife, had she so willed it, could have brought him to her feet again, with never a thought for any other woman—but an intimate relationship that, when leavened by compliments and risky phrases, and amorous sighs and suggestive glances, he chose to dignify by the name of love. He thought himself a very fine fellow, in that he dared to make advances to an Empress.

Abdallah saw that his protest might as well have been uttered to the winds, so he contented himself with a grunt and a shake of the head; meaning that it was a bad business and that he washed his hands of it.

No more was said between them, each remaining seated in moody silence, the while the carriage bowled along.

Presently it rattled across the bridge that spans the Seine; then they turned sharply to the left down an avenue leading to the palace gate. Here the carriage halted, and the occupants got out.

Instead of proceeding up the avenue, the main entrance to the palace, whose gloomy facade indistinctly loomed ahead of them, St. Just and his companion took a further detour to the left, bringing up, after a short walk, before a narrow gate. Abdallah took a key from his pocket and unlocked it; and both passed through.

They had but just re-closed it when a voice called out, "Hola! Who goes there?" and a tall sentry, topped with a huge bearskin that made him look gigantic in the gloom, seemed to spring out of the ground before them. He held his musket at the ready, and they could see the glimmering of the steel bayonet at its muzzle.

Before those challenged by the sentinel could make reply, another figure appeared upon the scene. He carried a lantern and, when he spoke, there was an air of authority about his tone that showed he was an officer.

"What's all this?" the words were shot out sharply.

"Not so last, Colonel Tremeau, I beseech you," said a peculiarly sweet voice behind the officer, and a woman in a superb evening toilette, but her head and shoulders enveloped in a shawl, emerged from a clump of trees and advanced to them. The lamplight was not strong enough to show her features, standing, as she was, in the shadow of the trees, but St. Just noticed that her figure was magnificent.

"I will answer for these gentlemen," she continued, "and, if that do not suffice you, here is an authority you will not dispute."

She handed the officer a ring of gold set with a superb single emerald. He glanced at it, and then, in a tone of some surprise he murmured, "The Empress' ring! Pass on, gentlemen," he went on aloud; "your authority is good enough. I did not know you were expected. Yet, stay; your names! It is my duty to obtain them. The names of all callers have to be sent in to the Palace Marshall for transmission to the Emperor."

"The Court jeweler and his assistant, with jewelry for Her Majesty," replied Abdallah sharply, and he held up the small box that had been on the carriage seat.

Colonel Tremeau seemed to hesitate, so once more the lady intervened:—

"Come, Sir, come; why this demeanor? These persons attend here by the orders of the Empress. She would make a present to one of her ladies, whose fête day is on the morrow."

The officer, without further parley, entered the particulars on his tablets; then moved aside to allow the men to pass, the lady leading the way. Following her they quickly traversed the garden, taking the path that led towards the "Bassin de Fer à Cheval." Thence, taking an avenue that bore southwards and lay parallel to the Seine, they emerged, after a short walk, upon an open space, whose center was occupied by a lofty tower, a replica of the monument of Lysicrates at Athens, recently erected by the Emperor.

Before this the lady halted. Then, opening a door, she invited them to enter. "The Empress is within," she said, "and is expecting you."

They passed into a room lighted by wax candles placed in sconces, and furnished with a rustic table and garden seats; and there were many windows in it.

At one of these, that faced the door, Josephine was seated. She was wearing a white evening gown, heavily embroidered with gold; a lovely and fascinating woman still, though at this time she was entering her tenth lustrum.

At their entrance she turned her face to her visitors—for she had been looking out of the window—and addressed them in a pleasant tone:—"Ah! gentlemen, I am glad you have arrived; I was beginning to fear you would disappoint me."

Both men bowed low, and St. Just made answer, "We made all speed, Your Majesty, and it has but this moment struck the hour at which you bade us come."

"Is that so?" rejoined the Empress. "Then I have been unreasonably impatient. But, when events of moment are in the balance, a weak woman may be pardoned for feeling thus. We are not fashioned to control ourselves like men."

"For which the good God be thanked," put in St. Just.

She shook her head at him reprovingly, but smiling archly; which showed that his speech had not displeased her. Then she addressed the lady. "Hermionie, you may take a stroll, or, if you prefer it, you may retire for the night. I shall not require your further services, and I have business with these gentlemen."

The lady, who had removed her shawl, displaying to St. Just a lovely face, dropped a low curtsey to the Empress, and withdrew. "The night is warm," she said, "I will take a stroll in the garden."

When the door had closed behind her, Josephine turned eagerly to the two men. "Now, gentlemen," she said, "let me hear the business you would discuss with me."

"Madame," replied St. Just, and he advanced to her and held out the charm she had given him in her husband's presence nearly ten years before; "unworthy though I am of the honor, I crave permission to recall myself to your remembrance by this token."

The sight of what he showed her had a strong effect upon her. Surprise and doubt and joy, all were printed on her countenance. Gradually doubt, and then surprise, died out of her face, and only delight remained. For, changed, though he was, she knew him. Again, for the third time, she had met the man who, without meaning it, had touched her heart at their first interview; whom she scarce durst acknowledge to herself she loved; whose life, by reason of that love, she had intervened to save.

"St. Just!" she panted. "It is, indeed, then you." Then, her voice still trembling with emotion, she turned to old Abdallah. "Leave us, my friend, I pray you, leave us. I would see Mons. St. Just alone."

The old man withdrew.

St. Just threw himself on his knees before her; then he seized her hand and covered it with kisses, she making no endeavor to release it.

"My Queen! My Empress!" he exclaimed with fervor. "By the memory of those halcyon days in the Forest of Fontainebleau when, in the guise of a woodcutter, I dwelt near you and feasted my eyes upon your grace and loveliness; when you would wander to my lonely hut, and our souls would commune in—dare I say it—love; in remembrance of those moments, I beseech you hear me."

He looked languishingly at Josephine and, for the time being, felt that he meant every word he said.

The Empress colored slightly in pleased confusion. "Two years ago," she murmured and she dropped her eyes; for in her, too, there was some make-believe. Then, as though the words had dropped from her unawares, she added, "Hush, I must not listen to such words, and you, Henri, must not utter them. Besides, foolish fellow, you know you do not mean them."

Now what more encouragement than this could a man desire? His protestations of affection were redoubled. "Nay, but by Heaven, I do, all and more."

"Stop, I beseech you. I cannot hear you; to do so would be dishonorable, as it is for you to speak in such a strain. Nay, you will anger me, if you proceed."

She was beginning to be fearful of herself; his words had moved her strangely. "But what has happened," she went on tenderly, "that has wrought this change in your appearance; a change so great that at first I failed to recognize you? You look years older than when last we met. Then your hair was black as the raven's wing; now it is fast whitening; you must have suffered much!" And, moved by the impulse of her gentle heart, without thinking what she did, she laid her hand upon his head and lightly stroked his hair.

St. Just leaped quickly to his feet and made as though he would have taken her in his arms. "You mistake me, Sir," she said, her breast heaving with agitation; "and you forget yourself and who and what I am. You must be mad, if you cannot distinguish between a woman's sympathy, and love. Restrain yourself, or this interview must end at once. Now tell me what is the matter on which you desired so urgently to see me; and I will pardon what has gone before."

At that moment, had not their minds been so intent on one another, they might have heard the sound of approaching footsteps; but love is often deaf, as well as blind.

"I have traveled night and day from the seat of war, to give you news that will cause you great unhappiness and destroy your peace of mind. But my sole reason is the hope that, being warned, you may be enabled to take measures to avert what is impending."

He paused before proceeding, to give the Empress time to prepare herself for what he had to say. She had an inkling of it, for vague rumors had reached her ears. But his words alarmed her greatly; her cheeks blanched, her features stiffened and a look of terror started to her eyes. For a moment she gazed at him, motionless and with parted lips. Then, "What is it?" she panted. "Tell me. Do not keep me in suspense; that I cannot bear. Do not fear for me; whatever it is, I shall make no scene. Only let me hear the worst at once. But, I fear, I greatly fear I guess it."

"The Emperor has tired of you and is meditating a divorce, and an alliance with the daughter of the Emperor of Austria."

Two persons, a man and woman, had just seated themselves below the window. Both started when they heard the words that had fallen from St. Just, and the woman would have uttered an exclamation; but the man instantly placed his hand before her mouth and whispered, "Hush! Hermionie, hush!"

St. Just continued, "Nay more, I know that both Talleyrand and Fouché have received instructions on the subject."

The Empress gazed at him in terror, grief and entreaty in her eyes. At first she seemed bereft of speech. But, in a few moments, she replied, "Alas! I feared he was losing his affection for me; but that he should contemplate divorcing me—such villainy I never dreamed of. But it cannot be; surely the laws of France would not permit it."

"I fear the laws of France will avail but little against Napoleon," replied St. Just. "At present he is France and can make such laws as suit him."

"Oh! I cannot believe it. Why, I am all the world to Napoleon. It is impossible that he could be so base, after his ardent protestations of affection."

She was trying to persuade herself that what she said was true; but intuitively she knew the contrary. For facts and rumors kept crowding to her mind, all tending to confirm the dreadful news. The vague stories of her husband's infidelities; his cold treatment and occasional cruel taunts when he found he had no hope of her giving him an heir; all these recollections flashed upon her now with added force, and murdered hope.

But, woman-like, she turned on her informant.

"Base traitor!" she exclaimed, "because I was weak enough to let you see that I have for you the sentiments of a friend, you dare to come to me and breathe slanders against my husband."

But she knew they were not slanders, and her momentary rage died out; St. Just was not to blame. She sank into a seat—for she had been standing—and sobbed without restraint.

At this juncture, the listeners outside the window moved away. The woman had risen first, and the man had tried to check her; but she had whispered angrily, "I will not be an eavesdropper," and had stepped away, and he had been obliged to follow her.

St. Just waited in silence until her tears had somewhat lessened. Then he spoke:

"Josephine, there is a chance of averting this calamity. What I have told you is absolutely true; but I can give you further news that, if judiciously employed, may turn Napoleon from his purpose. Listen; the Emperor of Russia and Talleyrand have come to the conclusion that England is their best ally, and are plotting to bring such an alliance into being. Moreover, Europe is secretly arming for the struggle with Napoleon. It may not come just yet, but it must come soon. Now, if you should warn the Emperor of all this, he might be grateful and, out of gratitude, abandon his intention of divorcing you. Read these papers, and you will see that I have grounds for what I say."

The Empress dried her tears and took the papers he handed to her; then settled herself to their perusal. They confirmed every word St. Just had uttered.

"Have you pen and ink and paper?" she said, when she had finished. He reopened the despatch box from which he had taken the papers, and handed her what she asked for.

She seated herself at the table and began to write, not as a suppliant, but as one who was conveying valuable information and stood firmly on her rights. Her exalted status gave her confidence. Her letter was lengthy and took some time in writing, and, meanwhile, not a word was exchanged between them. St. Just had thrown himself into a chair, and waited patiently.

At last she had disburdened her mind, and the scratching of the pen was stopped. She took the papers St. Just had given her, and tied them all together, with her own letter on the top. Then, on another sheet of paper, she scribbled the following words:

"On the Emperor's service. The bearer is a courier from the Empress. All who can are to help him in the name of France. Josephine."

This she sealed with her own seal and handed, with the packet of papers, to St. Just.

"There, I can do no more," she said. "God grant it may have the result I hope. Hide your very fastest," she continued; "lose not a moment by the way. You must reach Napoleon, ere he has had time to move in this nefarious scheme. And remember that the heart of the Empress goes with you to the Emperor."

"And dare I hope," he answered, "that the heart of Josephine goes with me too?"

She threw him a captivating glance, and smiled archly. Frivolous, and with no deep-seated feeling, as she was, the letter had revived her spirits, and she had persuaded herself that all would now be well.

"Foolish boy," she answered merrily. "Come and see me the moment you have achieved your errand, and you will find that Josephine is not ungrateful."

And with this he was compelled to be content.

Near the cascade, already mentioned, the man and the woman, who had overheard part of the conversation between the Empress Josephine and St. Just, were seated on a rustic bench. Their attitude, proclaimed that they were lovers, for the man's arm was round her waist, and her head was resting lovingly against his shoulder.

"Peace, Hermionie, peace, I say," the man said sharply. "I will hear no more. I repeat, it is for the good of the State. It must be done. Besides, the Emperor desires it; that suffices me!"

She turned from him petulantly like some spoilt child.

"It is cruel, it is unjust," she said, "and I hate cruelty and injustice, and will do all I can to oppose them. I repeat, I will tell the Empress what we have overheard, what was not intended for our ears. And Colonel Tremeau, I command you to keep secret what you have learned to-night." Then, in a softer tone, "Nay, I am wrong to use that tone. Dear Charles, if you love me, keep it secret."

Few men could have resisted her pleading tone, and still fewer gazed into her lovely face, without yielding to its entreaty; but this man was selfish and self-seeking to the core.

"You will do as you like," he answered in a hard, decisive tone, "as to telling the Empress; but," and he paused to emphasize what he was saying, "in that case, our marriage will not take place."

His cold, impassive tones sent an icy chill to his hearer's heart. His words seemed to admit of no appeal.

"Charles!" the girl faltered, "Oh! you must; I have your promise. After having taken advantage of my love, in a moment's weakness, and robbed me of that which a maiden holds most dear, you could not be so cruel, so dishonorable as to desert me, after what I have told you."

She shook with her emotion and burst into a flood of tears. Then she threw her soft white arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, as though to coax from him the concession that was her right.

For all his selfishness, the man was touched by this exhibition of despair and, to console her for the moment, he replied:

"There, there; don't weep, chérie. It shall be as you wish. I will give you the shelter of my name; it is your due. So dry your eyes, my darling; they do not become your pretty face. Trust your Charles. I will see that no one shall speak lightly of you."

His words were fair enough, but whether he would make them good the future should decide. All that he cared for now was to make her amenable to his will, with as little fuss as needs be. She was in his power, and he knew that she was bound to yield.

And she, poor trusting fool, believed, and the smiles broke through her tears.

"No, no," she said, "the world must never say that Hermionie de Vannes is less virtuous than she should be. And I never really doubted you, my Charles; I knew you were a man of honor and would be true to me. Kiss me, dearest, and say you are not angry with me, and forgive me that I ever seemed to doubt you; I will be guided wholly by you. I will do anything you wish, and say nothing to the Empress."

"Now you're my own little girl again," he said condescendingly, and he kissed her warmly.

"Hermionie! Hermionie! where are you?"

It was the Empress's voice across the garden calling her.

"The Empress," said the man. "Good night, my sweet; sleep soundly and dream of me; don't let your loving heart be troubled with anxious thoughts. All will be well with you."

He kissed her again, then sprang away into the darkness; and Hermionie hastened to the tower, where she found the Empress with St. Just standing by her side. It was on the verge of dawn, and they were gazing silently upon the view. Below them in the distance the Seine meandered, and to their left the bridge of St. Cloud could be just discerned.

The Empress was the first to speak.

"See, the clouds are breaking, the mists disperse, another day is dawning. We can just begin to see the green tops of the trees in the wood (the Bois de Boulogne); and yonder is Butte Montmartre, its summit crowned with those aged trees. Oh! how beautiful! And how fresh is everything in nature when the sun first wakes the world! See the first glimmer of his rays reflected far away on the dome of the Invalides. And now one can discern the shadowy forms of the houses of Paris emerging into view, as the mist floats slowly away. Ah! Paris, dear delightful, thoughtless, witty, restless, lively Paris, how I love you. But you are cruel too. Tell me my fate, you complex City. Will my Emperor return to me?"

She stretched her arms out appealingly to the slumbering city.

The birds were wakening into life and beginning to twitter amongst the shrubs; and some were already breaking into song. A lark was making melody in the sky above, carolling his earliest matins with joyous notes, trilling a welcome to the new-born day.

"Nature herself replies to your Majesty's behest," put in St. Just. "That bird forecasts your fate. Your life is to be one unending song."

He leaned forward and took her hand; then raised it to his lips.

"I would it might be so," she sighed; "but my mind misgives me. Come, Hermionie, it is time we sought our beds, if all the Palace is not to know of our proceedings. And you, sir," turning to St. Just, "ought not to tarry. I fear you will altogether miss your rest."

Once more he bent low over the Empress's hand. "In your service, Madame," he said gallantly, "I desire no rest. To do your will is a recreation in itself. And I pledge my word not to lay head to pillow, until I have handed your mission to the Emperor. Farewell, Madame, until I have redeemed my word."

She gave his hand a meaning pressure and whispered in his ear, "Farewell, and may God keep you. My heart goes with you, my true knight, my—lover!"

An hour later, he had started for the frontier, and was riding for all that he was worth; wholly unconscious that Colonel Tremeau had been closeted with the Palace Marshal detailing what he had overheard; and that, in consequence, the news was already on its way to Bounaparte.

CHAPTER IV.

It was night, a few days later. From above in the spangled heavens the silver moon was shedding her softened beams upon the expiring camp fires; and along the range of hills, the bugle notes rang out, above the murmur of the camp, the order, "All lights out;" the signal for the wearied army to seek forgetfulness and repose in sleep.

Away to the left, from the burning village of Wagram flames ever and anon shot up, lighting the country round and casting a ruddy glow upon a tent pitched on a mound round which the French army was encamped. Above the tent, the emblem of France's glory, the tricolor flapped and floated in the breeze. At frequent intervals, two grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, who were pacing to and fro before the tent, paused in their sentry-go to listen anxiously; for on the right of the French lines, hard by the silver streak that marked the river Danube, the distant boom of artillery and the fainter rattle of musketry could be heard. Already then, the fighting had begun.

Within the tent sat the master of these legions. Untiringly, while all around him slept, he worked. He was writing, with feverish haste, at the desk that lay open upon the table, the dim lantern casting its feeble rays upon the pale, impressive face, and reflecting just a glimmer on the gilt buttons and epaulets of the green and red Chasseur uniform he wore.

Occasionally he paused to think, and, at such moments, his glance fell on the sleeping secretary, who was, doubtless, dreaming of his cherished wife and children away in sunny France.

"Pauvre enfant!" muttered the Emperor, and resumed his writing.

Suddenly he threw down his pen and rose to his feet; then stretched his limbs. He was cramped with long-continued writing. His sensitive ear had caught the sound of the firing, and he stepped quickly to the opening of the tent.

The noise grew louder, and he could even sniff the smoke from powder. Evidently the engagement was extending, and might jeopardize his position. An anxious look appeared upon his face. He turned his head within, and his eye traveled quickly round the tent and lighted on a long blue cloak that lay across his camp bed. This he threw over his shoulders; then, having buckled on his sword, he left the tent.

At sight of him, the two grenadiers presented arms. He carelessly acknowledged their salute, and then began to pace up and down the little plateau before the tent. As was usual with him when deep in thought, his hands were crossed behind his back, and his chin was bent down upon his breast.

Hour succeeded hour, midnight came and went; and in the East the first gray streaks of dawn appeared, but still Napoleon maintained his monotonous tramp before his tent, pausing occasionally to listen.

At last, angry and impatient, he left his post and started with rapid strides to walk towards the advanced Guard.

Few men unused to the intricacies of the camp, covering at it did, several square miles, could have found their way thither without a guide, but Napoleon walked on unerringly. He seemed to know every inch of the ground.

At last, he paused in his solitary tramp, and halted, for a few moments, by a belt of trees, the silver-blue waters of the Danube flowing swiftly almost at his feet.

A short way down the river was a picket stationed to guard a small footbridge, and he could see the soldiers sitting by the fire, and, borne to him by the freshening breeze, he could hear their merry peals of laughter and occasional exclamations, called forth by some amusing story. He was amazed at their lightheartedness, when they knew that a battle was impending, and angered at the laxity with which their guard was kept. He stamped his foot, and in his face there came a look that boded ill for the commander of the picket.

"Fools!" he muttered. "Is it thus they keep their watch! Where is their officer?"

And the Emperor was just starting towards the group to learn the answer to his question, when something occurred that roused the laughing, chattering picket and brought them to their feet.

A horseman dashed across the narrow bridge. He was riding for his life, which each moment seemed to place in greater jeopardy, for in hot pursuit of him were some thirty Austrians. Mounted on white horses and with their white uniforms, they looked in the dim light like specters. They were gaining rapidly on the flying man, for his horse was almost done, and theirs seemed fresh enough.

The Emperor caught sight of what was going on, and made his way quickly to the picket. Meanwhile, all was bustle with them. The men had sprung to their feet and formed themselves into some sort of order to receive the enemy, whom they much outnumbered.

Meantime, the fugitive kept advancing, urging, by whip and spur, his jaded steed to greater efforts. Safety seemed almost in his grasp, and, encouraged by the presence of his compatriots, he waved his hand aloft, and shouted, "France and the Emperor!"

The picket cheered in response, and, with cries of "Vive l'Empereur," rushed to meet their foe. Then both sides went at it pell mell; shots were fired, but these soon ceased when the combatants got to close quarters; then it became a hand to hand struggle between swords and bayonets, and cuts and thrusts were freely exchanged, to the accompaniment of shouts and cheers from those who were unhurt, and groans from the wounded and the dying. Other Austrians swam their horses across the river to the assistance of their comrades, and, for the moment, despite the stubborn resistance of the French, who yielded only inch by inch, victory inclined to the attacking side. But soon reinforcements poured in on the French side, and the engagement raged more furiously than ever. For a short space the outpost seemed in danger, for Austrian troops on the other side of the river were collecting and hurrying across. But at this juncture, just when affairs were looking critical for Napoleon's men, some guns from the heights in possession of the French opened fire, sweeping the plains across the Danube. The hailstorm of grape and canister was murderous, and, there being no shelter for them, the Austrians first wavered and then incontinently took to flight. The small body on this side of the river were thus isolated, and could make no further stand against the dash and élan of the French. So the retreat was sounded and the survivors of them galloped across the bridge, followed by a storm of musket shots from the victorious enemy, that brought many a white uniform to the dust. Few of them, indeed, regained their comrades. The whole affair had occupied but a few minutes, and Napoleon, who had mounted a trooper's horse, and ridden up to the picket at the outset, had sat watching it immovably throughout.

When all was over, the flying horseman, who had so narrowly escaped capture, gained his side. Then, reining in his panting charger, he saluted.

"Whence come you, Sir," asked the Emperor sternly.

"From France, Sire, with despatches, marked immediate, from the Empress," was the prompt reply.

"Follow me to my tent, if your horse can carry you so far. Then I will see that the Empress's communication receives attention." And, to suit his pace to the new-comer's, he moved on at a walk, the other in his wake.

Arrived at the tent, Napoleon woke his secretary; he wanted him to write his answer to Josephine's despatch.

St. Just, for he was the courier who had so nearly lost his life, had not expected to find another person present, and felt embarrassed. Knowing the subject of the Empress's communication, he wished to have his interview with the Emperor alone. He hesitated for a moment, and then said deprecatingly:—"The Empress strictly charged me, Sire, to give you these papers when you were alone."

At the same time he held out the packet. Surprise and anger at the speaker's boldness in daring to criticise his actions, showed on Napoleon's face.

"My secretary does not count," he answered sharply.

"In the Empress's eyes I think he does, Sire," rejoined St. Just, astonished, and at the same time, fearful at his own temerity.

There was silence for a few moments, and the Emperor gave him a look that made him tremble. He seemed on the point of letting his passion have its fling; but suddenly his expression changed, and he said deliberately, "The Empress's wishes are my commands." Then to the secretary, "Leave us."

So soon as the secretary had departed, the Emperor snatched the packet from St. Just and then, for the first time, became aware of his identity. He started in surprise, for he had believed that his former aide-de-camp was dead—killed at Trafalgar, as it had been reported.

"Hah!" he exclaimed. "You, again! Then you were not hanged by that cursed English Admiral. What means this continual game of hide and seek? You seem to be gifted with the cat's tenacity of life. But I will inquire into your affairs anon. At present Her Majesty's despatch demands my notice."

He cut the silken cord that bound the papers, seated himself at a table and opened them out before him; then conned them carefully. Meanwhile, St. Just stood motionless and silent; but his brain was active; there was much to move it; he realized that he was in deadly peril, and knew that his life depended on the Emperor's mood.

Presently the Emperor started to his feet and, taking no notice of St. Just, went to a despatch box in the corner, and from it took a document. This also he read carefully, comparing it with some of the papers St. Just had brought. He threw it down upon the table with an angry "Pish!" Then he called out sharply, "Guard!"

There was a hurried movement outside the tent; then a file of soldiers came in view and drew up, motionless as statues, before the opening.

The Emperor, without moving from the table, addressed the sergeant. "Go to my secretary's tent and tell the officer who brought the last despatch to attend me instantly. Should he not be there, he must be sought until you find him."

The sergeant saluted and withdrew.

Then Napoleon went again to the despatch box; this time he took from it two miniatures.

At the one he looked at first, his face took on an expression of mingled affection and regret. It was the counterfeit presentment of the Empress Josephine, taken many years before; and the painter had been happy in his conception, for, though he had not actually sacrificed truth to flattery in any single feature, yet he had, somehow, so idealized the whole, as to depict a marvelously lovely face, that certainly surpassed in fascination the original. She seemed to be just opening her mouth to speak; one could almost see the lips in motion; and the eyes and every feature were instinct with the vivacity which was her greatest charm.

The Emperor gazed at it for a minute. Then, "No, no," he muttered; "it is useless." He sighed, then laid the miniature, lovingly and reluctantly, as it seemed, upon the table.

Then he took up the other, and this also he subjected to a long and earnest scrutiny. It was the portrait of a much younger woman—a mere girl in fact—with far less pretentions to feminine attractions than had Josephine. This was the Archduchess Marie Louise, the daughter of Napoleon's most stubborn foe: but, for all that, chosen by the great conquerer to be his wife, so soon as he should have freed himself from his present matrimonial claims.

With fear and trembling, and a sickening feeling at his heart, St. Just stood watching every movement, and scanning every feature of Napoleon; but to the mood of the man within, the stern, impassive countenance gave no clue. Hope was not wholly dead in St. Just, but despair predominated.

A quick, military step was heard approaching, and, immediately afterwards, an officer entered the tent, first pausing at the entrance to salute the Emperor.

A glance sufficed to show St. Just that his journey had been fruitless. The dread, muttered words "Too late" penetrated to his brain, and all the heart went out of him. The newcomer was Colonel Tremeau, the officer he had met a few days before in the garden at St. Cloud. He guessed that his conversation with the Empress had been overheard. He must have traveled post haste in order to outstrip him—and he had succeeded.

Napoleon noted the surprise and terror of St. Just, and a cruel smile began to flit about his face—the smile that did not betoken approval of the person whom it felt, but was, rather, devilish, and calculated to fill the stoutest heart with dread.

"You know this gentleman, Mons. St. Just," he said, and his tone was cold and calm. "You should have ridden faster. You did not know it was a race. Your rival came in first. Your information was forestalled; your plot has failed."

St. Just was almost dumbfounded; words seemed to fail him; he had no time to think; still he must say something. Pale as death and not knowing what he did say, he stammered:

"Sire, permit me a word, one word I beseech you,"

"Say on, but make your words as few as possible."

"There is no plot, Sire," resumed the luckless emissary; "I have ridden here without resting by the way, at the Empress's express commands, to convey to you intelligence that Her Majesty thought vital to France and you. The papers that came into her hands and that she charged me to deliver to your Majesty, seemed to show that our country is in danger. England is on the point of joining hands with Russia; all Europe is rising secretly against you. Your armies are retreating everywhere in Spain.

"You hold in your hand, Sire, the proofs of the duplicity and worse, of Talleyrand and Fouché. Think you that they would wish to part you from the Empress, save for their own ends?"

He paused, appalled at his own audacity.

"By Heavens, Sir," the Emperor stormed, and he sprang to his feet, and stamped with rage, "you presume too far. I will submit no longer to your insolence. I will have you shot. Colonel Tremeau, arrest that man."

Colonel Tremeau made a step forward to obey the Emperor's command, but paused when the other raised his hand and addressed Napoleon.

"Pause one moment, Sire," he said, "and consider what you would do. I have the Empress's safe conduct. Surely you would not stain your honor as a soldier and a man by laying a finger on a peaceful envoy."

Then, to do him justice, more concerned for Josephine than for himself, distracted at the thought of her pain at receiving no reply to her appeal, and at the suspicion that he had betrayed her, he went down on one knee before Napoleon, and besought him to weigh carefully the serious news in the despatches. "Arrest me, Sire," he concluded; "kill me, if you will; but save the Empress and yourself."

"Possibly the Empress would rather save her paramour," interjected Colonel Tremeau sneeringly.

At this, Napoleon turned round suddenly to the last speaker, his face convulsed with rage, and from his eyes fire seemed to flash.

"What mean you, Sir?" he shouted. "Explain your vile innuendo instantly, or you, too, shall be arrested."

Thus challenged, Tremeau told of St. Just's midnight visit to St. Cloud and of what he had overheard there. St. Just listened to him in silence, and, listening, thought it was all over with him. He could not but admit to himself that Tremeau stated fairly what had taken place. He showed no animus, spoke calmly and dispassionately, and put no false color on the truth. Also it became plain that Tremeau had not heard all; he must have gone before the interview with Josephine was over. Poor though it was, this was some slight consolation.

When the officer had finished his account, at first the Emperor said nothing. He took the miniature of Josephine from the table and threw it on the ground; then stamped upon it, grinding it to fragments under his heel. Then, his features working unceasingly and his hands clenching and unclenching in his fury, he called out, "Guard!"

The file appeared with their sergeant at their head. He gathered up the despatches and crumpled them together; then passed them to the sergeant. "Burn these papers at once. Stay, I will see you do it."

He strode rapidly outside the tent to a camp fire a few yards off; then flung the papers into it. St. Just had stepped outside the tent and been a silent watcher of the scene. The Emperor strode up to him. "Go, Sir, to the Empress," he said sternly, "and tell her what you have seen. That is my answer to her letter and enclosures. As for you," and he looked St. Just contemptuously from head to foot, "I give Her Majesty credit for better taste, than to place on Colonel Tremeau's words the construction they might bear. You have mistaken condescension for a sentiment that implies equality. The lion's consort mates only with her kind, and could find no attraction in a cur."

At this moment an officer of high rank galloped up, his charger flecked with foam; he drew rein when he reached Napoleon.

"The Austrians are advancing, Sire,"—he brought the words out breathlessly—"and the men are impatient to attack." The change in the Emperor's face was almost magical; the rage that had contorted it had vanished like a flash, at the officer's first words, and now there was a glow of pleasure on it; the impassiveness was gone, and the light of anticipated victory was in his eye. He forgot the man who had so raised his ire, and even Josephine.

"This is welcome news," he answered joyously; "we will give them a lesson for their rashness. Return, Marshal, instantly, and let the advance be sounded. I will be with you before they get to work." Then he turned to Colonel Tremeau. "Leave me now, Sir, I will see you after the battle. At present I would be alone."

The Marshal rode away and Tremeau withdrew.

Napoleon re-entered his tent, and St. Just, from the outside, saw him bring the portrait of the Austrian Arch-duchess to his lips, while the Frenchwoman's lay shattered at his feet.

Then Josephine's envoy moved away. He was sick at heart, chafing at Napoleon's contemptuous words, and despondent at the utter failure of his mission. How he should break the news to Josephine, he scarce durst think.

Meanwhile, the Emperor rode forth to beat the Austrians. History tell us how, throughout that long and hard fought day, wherever the fight was thickest and the danger greatest, he was to be found. Perchance, he hoped that some stray bullet would still that conscience that was vainly telling him that what he meditated against Josephine was a hideous crime.

CHAPTER V.

Nearly five months had passed since the battle of Wagram had been fought and won; since the momentous interview between the Emperor and St. Just that had resulted so disastrously for Josephine. Then it had been warm, sunny June, the sky one sheet of azure; now it was the last day in November, when all was chill and dreary, and a dark pall hung over everything. It was a day on which even a Mark Tapley would have found it hard to preserve his spirits.