 Chapter 7 OF THE BRONZ EGLE by Baroness Orksey, the ascent of the capital, and the triumphal march from the Gulf of Joann, continued uninterrupted to Paris, after Le Frey and Grenoble, Lyons where the silk weavers of La Guilatière assembled in their thousands to demolish the barricades which had been built up on their bridge against the arrival of the emperor, and watched his entry into their city waving kerchiefs and hats in his honour, and tricolour flags and caucades fished out of cupboards where they had lain hidden, but not forgotten for one whole year. After Lyons, Villafranche, where sixty thousand peasants and workmen awaited his arrival at the foot of the Tree of Liberty, on the top of which a brass eagle, the relic of some old standard, glistened like gold as it caught the rays of the setting sun, and Nevers, where the townsfolk urged the regiments as they marched through the city to tear the white caucades from their hats, and Chalon-sur-Saône, where the work people commandeered a convoy of artillery, destined for the army of Moussour Lecompte de Artois. The prophets of the various departments, the bureaucracy of provinces and cities, are not only amazed, but struck with terror. This is a new revolution, they cry in dismay. Yes, it is a new revolution, the revolt of the peasantry of the poor, the humble, the oppressed, the hatred which they felt against that old regime which had come back to them with its old arrogance and its former tyrannies, had joined issue with the cult of the army for the emperor who had led it to glory, to fortune, and to fame. The people and the army were roused by the same enthusiasm, and marched shoulder to shoulder to join the standard of Napoleon. The little man in the shabby hat and the gray reddingote, who for them personified the spirit of the great revolution, the great struggle for liberty and its final victory. The army of the Compte de Artois, that portion of it which remained loyal, was powerless against the overwhelming tide of popular enthusiasm, powerless against dissatisfaction, mutterings and constant defections in its ranks. The army would have done well in province, for province was loyal and royalist man, woman and child, but Napoleon took the route of the Alps and avoided province by the time he reached Lyons he had an army of his own, and M. Le Compte de Artois, fearing more defections and worse defeats, had thought it prudent to retire. It has often been said that if a single shot had been fired against his original little band, Napoleon's march on Paris would have been stopped. Who shall tell? There are such ifs in the world which no human mind can challenge. Certain it is that that shot was not fired. At Le Fray, Rendon gave the order, but he did not raise his musket himself. On the walls of Grenoble, St. Janus, in command of the artillery, and urged by the Compte de Cambre, did not dare to give the order or to fire a gun himself. The men declare, he had said gloomily, that they would blow their officers from their own guns. And at Lyons there was not militiamen, a royalist, volunteer, or a pariah out of the streets, who was willing to fire that first and single shot. And though Marshall McDonald swore, ultimately, that he would do it himself, his determination failed him at the last when surrounded by his wavering troops he found himself face-to-face with the conqueror of Austerlitz and Genna and Rivoli and a thousand other glorious fights, with the man in the gray reddingote who had created him, Marshall of France and Duke of Terrent on the battlefields of Lombardy, his comrade in arms who had shared his own scanty army rations with him, slept beside him round the Bivouac fires and round whom now there rose a cry from end to end of Lyons, Viva l'Empereur. Viva l'Empereur de Marmont did not wait for the arrival of the emperor at Lyons, nor did he attempt to enter the city. He knew that there was still some money in the imperial treasury brought over from Elba, and his mind, always in search of the dramatic, had dwelt with pleasure on thoughts of the day when the emperor, having entered Fontainebleau, or perhaps even Paris and the Tuileries, would there be met by his faithful de Marmont, who on bended knees in the midst of a brilliant and admiring throng would present to him the twenty-five million francs originally the property of the empress herself, and now happily rested from the cupidity of royalist traitors. The picture pleased de Marmont's fancy. He dwelt on it with delight. He knew that no one required a service more amply and more generously than Napoleon. He knew that after this service rendered there was nothing to which he, de Marmont, as he was, could not aspire. Tidal, riches, honors, anything he wanted would speedily become his, and with these, to his credit, he could claim crystal de Cambrai once more. Oh, she would be humbled again by then. She and her father, too, the proud aristocrats, doomed once more to penury and exile, unless he, de Marmont, came forth like the very prince to the beggar-maid with hands laden with riches ready to lay these at the feet of the woman he loved. Yes, crystal de Cambrai would be humbled. De Marmont, though he felt that he loved her more and better than any man had ever loved any woman before, nevertheless had a decided wish that she should be humbled and suffer bitterly thereby. He felt that her pride was his only enemy. Her pride and royalist prejudices of the latter he thought but little, confident of his emperor's success, he thought that all those hot-headed royalists would soon realize the hopelessness of their cause, rendered all the more hopeless through its short-lived triumph of the past year, and abandon it gradually and surely, accepting the inevitable and rejoicing over the renewed glory which would come over France. As for her pride, well, that was going to be humbled, along with the pride of the bourbon princes of that fatuous old king, of all those arrogant aristocrats who had come back after years of exile as arrogant, as tyrannical, as ever before. These were pleasing thoughts which kept Victor de Marmont company on his way between Lyons and Fontainebleau. Once past Villafranche he sent the bulk of his escort back to Lyons, where the emperor should have arrived by this time. He had written out a superficial report of his expedition which the sergeant in charge of the little troop was to convey to the emperor's own hands. He only kept two men with him, put himself and them into plain traveling clothes which he purchased at Villafranche, and continued his journey to the north without much haste. The roads were safe enough from footpaths, he and his two men were well armed, and what stragglers from the main royalist army he came across would be far too busy with their own retreat and their own disappointment to pay much heed to a civilian and seemingly harmless traveler. De Marmont loved to linger on the way in the towns and hamlets where the news of the emperor's approach had already been wafted from Grenoble or Lyons or Villafranche on the wings of wind or birds, who shall say, enough that it had come that the peasants assembled in masses in their villages were whispering together that he was coming, the little man in the gray redding-goat, the emperor, and De Marmont would halt in those villages and stop to whisper with the peasants, too. Yes, he was coming, and the whole of France was giving him a rousing welcome. There was Le Frey, and Grenoble, and Lyons, the army rallied to his standard as one man. And De Marmont would then pass on to another village, to another town, no longer whispering after a while, but loudly proclaiming the arrival of the emperor, who had come into his own again. After Nevers, he was only twenty-four hours ahead of Napoleon, and his progress became a triumphant one. Newspapers, dispatches, had filtrated through from Paris. News became authentic, though some of it sounded a little wild. After De Marmont arrived, he was received with acclamations as the man who had seen the emperor, who had assisted at the emperor's magnificent entry into Grenoble, who could assure citizens and peasantry that it was all true, that the emperor would be in Paris again very shortly, and that once more there would be an end to tyranny and oppression, to the rule of the aristocrats, and a number of incompetent and fatuous princes. He did not halt at Fontainebleau, for now he knew that the court of the Tuileries was in a panic, that neither the Comte de Artois nor the Duc de Berry, nor any of the royal princes had succeeded in keeping the army together, that defections had been rife for the past week, even before Napoleon had shown himself, and that Marshal Ney, the bravest soldier in France, had joined his emperor at Auxerre. No, De Marmont would not halt at Fontainebleau, it was Paris that he wanted to see, Paris which today would witness the hasty flight of the gaudy and unpopular king, whom it had never learned to love, Paris decking herself out like a bride for the arrival of her bridegroom, Paris waiting and watching, while once again on the Tuileries and the Hotel de Ville, on the Louvre and the Luxembourg, on church towers and government buildings, the old tricolor flag waved gaily in the wind. He slept that night at a small hotel in the Louvre quarter, but the whole evening he spent on the Place du Carousel, with the crowd outside the Tuileries, watching the departure from the palace of the infirm King of France and of his court. The crowd was silent and obviously deeply moved, the spectacle before it of an old ailing monarch driven forth out of the home of his ancestors, and forced after an exile of three and twenty years and a brief reign of less than one to go back once more to misery and exile was pitiable in the extreme. Many forgot all that the brief reign had meant in disappointments and bitter regrets, and only saw in the pathetic figure that waddled painfully from portico to carriage door a monarch who was unhappy, abandoned and defenseless, a monarch too who in his unheroic, sometimes grotesque person was nevertheless the representative of all the privileges and all the rights of all the dignity and majesty pertaining to the most ancient ruling dynasty in Europe, as well as of all the humiliations and misfortunes which that same dynasty had endured. It is late in the evening of March twentieth, a thin mist is spreading from the river right over Paris, and from the Place du Carousel the lighted windows of the Tuileries palace appear only like tiny dimly flickering stars. Here an immense crowd is assembled. It has waited patiently hour after hour ever since in the earlier part of the afternoon. A courier has come over from Fontainebleau with the news that the emperor is already there and would be in Paris this night. It is the same crowd which twenty-four hours ago shed a tear or two in sympathy for the departing monarch. Now it stands here waiting, excited, ready to cheer the return of a popular hero, half forgotten, wildly acclaimed, madly welcomed, to be cursed again, and again forgotten so soon. It was a heterogeneous crowd for soothe, made up in great part of the curious, the idle, the indifferent, and in great part too of the bonapartist enthusiasts and malcontents who had grown under the reactionary tyranny of the restoration, of malcontents too of no enthusiasm, who were ready to welcome any change which might bring them to prominence or to fortune, with here and there a sprinkling of hot-headed revolutionaries cursing the return of the emperor as heartily as they had cursed that of the bourbon king. And here and there a few heart-sick royalists come to watch the final annihilation of their hopes. Victor de Marmont, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood among the crowd for a while. He knew that the emperor would probably not be in Paris before night, and he loved to be in the very midst of the wave of enthusiasm which was surging higher and ever higher in the crowd, and hear the excited whispers, and to feel all round him, wrapping him closely like a magic mantle of warmth and delight, the exultation of this mass of men and women assembled here to acclaim the hero whom he himself adored. Closely buttoned inside his coat, he had scraps of paper worth the ransom of any king. Among the crowd too, Bobby Clifford moved and stood. He was one of those who watched this enthusiasm with a heart filled with forebodings. He knew well how short this enthusiasm would be. He knew that within a few weeks, days perhaps, the bold and reckless adventurer who had so easily reconquered France would realize that the imperial crown would never be allowed to sit firmly upon his head. Men in this crowd knew better that the present pageant and glory would be short-lived, than did this tall, quiet Englishman who listened with half an ear and a smile of good-natured contempt to the loud cries of Viva la Emperor, which rose spontaneously whenever the sound of horses hooves or rattles of wheels from the direction of Fontainebleau suggested the approach of the hero of the day. None knew better than he that already, in far off England, another great hero named Wellington was organizing the forces which presently would crush forever this time the might and ambitions of the man whom England had never acknowledged as anything but a usurper and a foe. But closely buttoned inside his coat Clifford had a letter which he had received at his lodgings in the Alma quarter only a few moments before he saluted forth into the streets. That letter was an answer to a confidential inquiry of his own sent to the chief of the British secret intelligence department resident in Paris, desiring to know if the department had any knowledge of a vast sum of money having come unexpectedly into the hands of his majesty the king of France before his flight from the capital. The answer was an emphatic no. The intelligence department knew of no such windfall, but its secret agents reported that Victor de Marmont, captain of the usurper's bodyguard, had waylaid Massaur Le Marquis de Saint-Jeanus on the high road not far from Lyons. The escort which had accompanied Victor de Marmont on that occasion had been dismissed by him at Villa France and the information which the British secret intelligence department had obtained came through the indiscretion of the sergeant in charge of the escort who had boasted in a tavern at Lyons that he had actually surged Massaur de Saint-Jeanus and found a large sum of money upon him of which Massaur de Marmont promptly took possession. When Bobby Clifford received this letter and first mastered its contents the language which he used would have done honor to a Toulon co-heaver, he cursed Saint-Jeanus's stupidity in allowing himself to be caught, but above all he cursed himself for his soft-heartedness which had prompted him to part with the money. The letter which brought him the bad news seemed to scorch his hand and brand it with the mark of folly. He had thought to serve the woman he loved first by taking the money from her, since he knew that Victor de Marmont with an escort of cavalry was after it and secondly by allowing the man whom she loved to have the honor and glory of laying the money at his sovereign's feet. The whole had ended in a miserable fiasco and Clifford felt sore and wrathful against himself and also among the crowd, among those who came, heart-sick, hopeless, forlorn to watch the triumph of the enemy as they had watched the humiliation of their feeble king, was Massaur lecompt de Cambrai with his daughter Crystal on his arm. They had come, as so many royalists had done, with a vague hope that in the attitude of the crowd they would discern indifference rather than exaltation, and that the active agents of their party as well as those of England and of Prussia would succeed presently in stirring up a counter-demonstration, that a few cries of Vival Le Roy would prove to the army at least and to the people of Paris that acclamations for the usurper were at any rate not unanimous. But the crowd was not indifferent, it was excited. When first the comp de Cambrai and Crystal arrived on the Place du Carousel, a number of white cockades could be picked out in the throng, either worn on a hat or fixed to a buttonhole, but as the afternoon wore on there were fewer and fewer of these small white stars to be seen. The temper of the crowd did not brook this mute reproach upon its enthusiasm. One or two cockades had been roughly torn and thrown into the mud, and the wearer unpleasantly ill-used if he persisted in any royalistic demonstration. Crystal, when she saw these incidents, was not the least frightened. She wore her white cockade openly pinned to her cloak. She was far too loyal, far too enthusiastic and fearless, far too much a woman to yield her convictions to the popular feeling of the moment. And she looked so young and so pretty, clinging to the arm of her father, who looked a picturesque and harmless representative of the fallen regime, that with the exception of a few rough words, a threat here and there, they had so far escaped active molestation. And the crowd presently had so much to see that it ceased to look out for white cockades, or to bait the sad-eyed royalists. A procession of carriages, sparse at first, and simple in appearance, had begun to make its way from different parts of the town, across the plos-due carousel, toward the tuleries. They arrived very quietly at first, with as little clatter as possible, and drew up before the gates of the pavilion-day floor, with as little show as may be. The carriage doors were opened un- ostentatiously, and dark furtive figures stepped out from them, and almost ran to the door of the palace, so eager were they to escape observation. Their big cloaks wrapped closely round them to hide the court-dress, or uniform below. Ministers, dignitaries of the court, counselors of state, major domos, stewards, butlers, body-servants, they all came one by one, or in groups of twos or threes. As the afternoon wore on, these arrivals grew less and less furtive. The carriages arrived with greater clatter and to-do, with finer liveries and more gorgeous harness. Those who stepped out of the carriage doors were no longer quick and stealthy in their movements. They lingered near the step to give an order, or to chat to a friend. The big cloak no longer concealed the gorgeous uniform below. It was allowed to fall away from the shoulder, so as to display the row of medals and stars, the gold embroidery, the magnificence of the court attire. The emperor had left Fontainebleau. Within an hour he would be in Paris. One knew it, and the excitement in the crowd that watched grew more and more intense. Last night these same men and women had looked with mute if superficial sympathy on the departure of Louis XVIII through these same palace gates. Many eyes then became moist at the sight, as memory flew back twenty years to the murdered king, his flight to Varens, his ignominious return, his weary cavalry from prison to courthouse and thence to the scaffold. And here was his brother, come back after twenty-three years of exile, acclaimed by the populace, cheered by foreign soldiers, Russians, Austrians, English, anything but French, and driven forth once more to exile after the brief glory that lasted not quite a year. But this the crowd of today has already forgotten, with the completeness peculiar to crowds, men, women, and children too, they are no longer mute, they talk, and they chatter, they scream with astonishment and delight, whenever, now from more and more carriages, more and more gorgeously dressed folk descend, the ladies are beginning to arrive, the wives of the great court dignitaries, the ladies of the court and household of this still absent empress, they do not attempt to hide their brilliant toilets, their bare shoulders and arms gleam through the fastenings of their cloaks and diamonds sparkle in their hair. The crowd has recognized some of the great marshals, the men who in the emperor's wake led the French troops to victory in Italy, in Prussia, in Austria, Marit, Duke de Bassano is there and the crowd cheers him, the Duke de Rovigno, Marshal de Vaut, Prince de Echmule, Exelmans, one of Napoleon's oldest companions at arms, the Duke of Gaeta, the Duke of Padua, a crowd of generals and superior officers, it seems like the world of the sleeping beauty and of the enchanted castle which a kiss has awakened from its eleven months sleep. The empire had only been asleep, it had dreamed a bad dream wherein its hero was a prisoner and an exile, now it is slowly awakened back to life and to reality. The night wears on, darkness and fog envelop Paris more and more, excitement becomes akin to anxiety, if the emperor did leave Fontainebleau when the last courier said that he did, he should certainly be here by now. There are strange whispers, strange waves of evil reports that spread through the waiting crowd, a royalist fanatic had shot at the emperor, the emperor was wounded, he was dead. Oh, the excitement of that interminable weight, at last just as from every church tower the bells strike the hour of nine, there comes the muffled sound of a distant calvocade, the sound of horses galloping and only half drowning that of the rumbling of coach-wheels, it comes from the direction of the embankment and from far away now is heard the first cry of Viva la Emperor, the noise gets louder and more clear, the cries are repeated again and again till they merge into one great uproarious clamor, like the ocean when lashed by the wind, the crowd surges, moves, rises on tiptoe, subsides, falls back to crush forward again and once more to retreat as a heavy coach surrounded by a thousand or so of mounted men dashes over the cobbles of the plass due carousel whilst the clamor of the crowd becomes positively deafening, Viva la Emperor, the officers in the courtyard of the palace rush to the coach as it draws up at the pavilion de flore, one of them succeeds in opening the carriage door, the Emperor is literally torn out of the carriage carried to the vestibule where more officers sees him, raise him from the crowd, bear him along hoisted upon their shoulders up the monumental staircase. Their enthusiasm is akin to delirium, they nearly tear their hero to pieces in their wild mad frantic welcome, in heaven's name protect his person, exclaims the Duke David's sense anxiously, and he and Lavalette manage to get hold of the bannisters and by dint of fighting and pushing succeed in walking backwards step by step in front of the Emperor, thus making a way for him. Lavalette can hardly believe his eyes, and the Duke David's sense keeps murmuring, it is the Emperor, it is the Emperor, and he, the little stout man in green cloth coat and white breeches, walks up the steps of his reconquered palace like a man in a dream. His eyes are fixed apparently on nothing, he makes no movement to keep his two enthusiastic friends away, the smile upon his lips is meaningless and fixed. Viva la Emperor, though ciferates the crowd, Viva la Emperor for one hundred days, a few weeks of joy, a few weeks of anxiety, a few weeks of indecision, of wavering and of doubt, then defeat more irrevocable than before, exile more distant, despair more complete. Viva la Emperor, while we shout with excitement, while we remember the disappointments of the past year, while we hope for better things from a hand that has lost its cunning, a mind that has lost its power. Viva la Emperor, let him live for one hundred days, while we forget our enthusiasm, and Europe prepares its final crushing blow. Let him live until we remember once again the horrors of war, the misery, the famine, the devastated homes, until once more we see the maimed and crippled crawling back virally from the fields of glory, until our ears ring with the wails of widows and the cries of the fatherless. Then let him no longer live, for he it is who has brought this misery on us through his will and through his ambition, and France has suffered so much from the aftermath of glory that all she wants now is rest. Gradually, but it took some hours, the tumult and excitement in and round the tuleries subsided, the Emperor managed to shut himself up in his study and to eat some supper in peace, while gradually outside his windows the crowd, who had nothing more to see and was getting tired of staring up at glittering panes of glass, went back more or less quietly to their homes. Only in the courtyard of the tuleries the troopers of the cavalry, which had formed the Emperor's escort from Fontainebleau, tethered their horses to the railings, rolled themselves in their mantles and slept on the pavements, giving to this portion of the palace the appearance of a bivouac in a place which has been taken by storm. One of the last to leave, the plos due carousel, was Bobby Clifford. The crowd was thin by this time, but it was the tired and the indifferent, the merely curious, who had been the first to go. Those who remained to the last were either the very enthusiastic, who wanted to set up a final shout of Viva l'Empereur, after their idol had entirely disappeared from their view, or the malcontents, who would not lose a moment to discuss their grievances, to murmur covert threats, or suggest revolt in some shape or form or kind. Bobby slipped quickly past several of these isolated groups, indifferent to the dark and glowering looks of suspicion that were cast at his tall muscular figure with the firm step and the defiant walk that was vaguely reminiscent of the British troops that had been in Paris last year at the time of the foreign occupation. He had skirted the tulery's gardens and was walking along the embankment, which now was dark and solitary save for some rowdy enthusiasts on ahead, who arm in arm in two long rows that reached from the garden railings to the parapet were obstructing the roadway and shouting themselves hoarse with Viva l'Empereur. Clifford, who was walking faster than they did, was just deliberating in his mind whether he should turn back and go home some other way or charge this unpleasant obstruction from the rear and risk the consequences when he noticed two figures still further on ahead walking in the same direction as he himself and the rowdy crowd. One of these two figures, thus viewed in the distance through the mist and from the back, looked nevertheless like that of a woman, which fact at once decided Bobby as to what he would do next. He sprinted toward the crowd as fast as he could, but unfortunately he did not come up with them in time to prevent the two unfortunate pedestrians being surrounded by the turbulent throng, which still arm in arm and to the accompaniment of wild shouts had formed a ring around them and were now vociferating at the top of raucous voices. Abbas la Coquarde Blanche, Abbas Viva l'Empereur, a flickering street lamp feebly lit up this unpleasant scene. Bobby saw the vague outline of a man and of a woman standing boldly in the midst of the hostile crowd, while two white cockades gleamed defiantly against the dark background of their cloaks. To an Englishman who was a past master in the noble art of using fists and knees to advantage, the situation was neither uncommon nor very perilous. The crowd was noisy, it is true, and was no doubt ready enough for mischief, but Clifford's swift and scientific onslaught from the rear staggered and disconcerted the most bold. There was a good deal more shouting, plenty of cursing. The Englishman's arms and legs seemed to be flying in every direction, like the arms of a windmill, a good many thuds and bumps, a few groans, a renewal of the attack, more thuds and groans, and the discomfited group of roisterers fled in every direction. Bobby with a smile turned to the two motionless figures whom he had so opportunely rescued from an unpleasant plight. Just a few turbulent black guards, he said lightly, as he made a quick attempt at readjusting the set of his coat and the position of his satin stock. There was not much fight in them, really, and he had, of course, lost his hat in the brief, if somewhat stormy, encounter, and now, as he turned, the thin streak of light from the street lamp fell full upon his face with its twinkling, deep set eyes, and the half-humorous, self-deprecatory curl of the firm mouth. A simultaneous exclamation came from his two protégés, and stopped the easy flow of his light-hearted words. He peered closely into the gloom, and it was his turn now to exclaim, half doubting, wholly astonished, Madame Azelle Crystal, Miss Sir Lecompt. Indeed, sir, broke in the comp slowly, and with a voice that seemed to be trembling with emotion. It is to my daughter and to myself that you have just rendered a signal and generous service. For this I tender you my thanks. Yet, believe me, I pray you, when I say that both she and I would rather have suffered any humiliation or ill-usage from that rough crowd, than o' our safety and comfort to you. There was so much contempt, hatred even, in the tone of voice of this old man, whose manner habitually was a pattern of moderation and of dignity, that for the moment Clifford was completely taken aback. Puzzlement fought with resentment, and with the maddening sense that he was anyhow impotent to avenge even so bitter an insult, as had just been hurled upon him against a man of the comp's years and status. Miss Sir Lecompt, he said at last, will you let me remind you that the other day, when you turned me out of your house like a dishonest servant, you would not allow me to say a single word in my own justification. The man on whose word you condemned me then, without a hearing, is a scatterbrained braggart, who you yourself must know is not a man to be trusted, and pardon me, Miss Sir, broke in the comp with perfect sangfroy, even if I acted on that evening with undue haste and ill-considered judgment, many things have happened since, which you yourself surely would not wish to discuss with me, just when you have rendered me a signal service. Your pardon, Miss Sir Lecompt, retorted Clifford with equal coolness, I know of nothing which could possibly justify the charges which, not later than last Sunday, you laid at my door. The charge which I laid at your door then, Mr. Clifford, has not been lifted from its threshold yet. I charged you with deliberately conspiring against my king and my country all the while that you were eating bread and salt at my table. I charged you with striving to render assistance to that Corsican usurper whom may the great God punish, and you yourself practically owned to this before you left my house. This I did not, Miss Sir Lecompt, broken Clifford hotly, as a man of honor I give you my word, that except for my being in De Marmont's company on that day, that he posted up the emperor's proclamation in Grenoble, I had no hand in any political scheme. And you would have me believe you, exclaimed Lecompt, with ever-growing vehemence, when you talk of that Corsican brigand as the emperor. Those words, Sir, are an insult, and had you not saved my daughter and me just now from violence I would, old as I am, strike you in the face for them. With an impatient sigh at the old man's hot-headed obstinacy, Clifford turned with a look of appeal to Crystal, who up to now had taken no part in the discussion. Madam Iselle, he said gently, will you not at least do me justice? Cannot you see that I am clumsy at defending my own honor, seeing that I have never had to do it before? I only see, Missor, she retorted coldly, that you are making vain and pitiable efforts to regain my father's regard, no doubt for purposes of your own. But why should you trouble? You have nothing more to gain from us. Your clever comedy of a highway man on the road has succeeded beyond your expectations. The Corsican who now sits in the armchair, lately vacated by an infirm monarch whom you and yours helped to dethrone, will no doubt reward you for your pains. As for me, I can only echo my father's feelings. I would ten thousand times sooner have been torn to pieces by a rough crowd of ignorant folk than, oh, my safety to your interference. She took her father's arm and made a movement to go. Instinctively Clifford tried to stop her. At her words he had flushed with anger to the very roots of his hair. The injustice of her accusation maddened him. But the bitter resentment in the tone of her voice, the look of passionate hatred with which she regarded him as she spoke, positively appalled him. Missor LaCompte, he said firmly, I cannot let you go like this, whilst such horrible thoughts of me exist in your mind. England gave you shelter for three and twenty years in the name of my country's kindness and hospitality toward you. I, as one of her sons, demand that you tell me frankly and clearly exactly what I am supposed to have done to justify this extraordinary hatred and contempt which you and Mademoiselle Crystal seem now to have for me. One of England's sons, Missor, retorted the Compte equally firmly. Nay, you are not even that. England stands for right and for justice for our legitimate king and the punishment of the usurper. Great God, he exclaimed, more and more bewildered now, are you accusing me of treachery against my own country? This will I allow no man to do, not even. Then, sir, I pray you, rejoined Crystal proudly, go and seek a quarrel with the man who has unmasked you, who caught you red-handed with the money in your possession which you had stolen from us, who forced you to give up what you had stolen, and whom then you and your friend Victor de Marmont waylaid and robbed once more. Go then, Mr. Clifford, and seek a quarrel with the Marquis de Saint-Jeanus, who has already struck you in the face once, and, no doubt, will be ready to do so again. And what of Clifford's thoughts, while the woman he loved, with all the strength of his lonely heart, poured forth these hideous insults upon him? Amazement, then wrath, bewilderment, then final hopelessness, all these sensations ran riot through his brain. Saint-Jeanus had behaved like an abominable blackguard, this he gathered from what she said. He had lied like a mean skunk, and betrayed the man who had rendered him an infinitely great service. Of him Clifford wouldn't even think. Such despicable, crawling worms did exist on God's earth, he knew that. But he possessed the happy faculty, the sunny disposition, that is able to pass a worm by, and ignore its existence, while keeping his eyes fixed upon all that is beautiful in earth and in the sky. Of Saint-Jeanus, therefore, he would not think. Someday, perhaps, he might be able to punish him. But not now, not while this poor, forlorn, heart-sick girl pinned her implicit faith upon that wretched worm, and bestowed on him the priceless garden of her love. An infinity of pity rose in his kindly heart for her, and obscured every other emotion. That same pity he had felt for her before. A sweet, protecting pity, gentle sister to fiercer, madder love, which had perhaps never been so strong as it was at this hour, when, for the second time, he was about to make a supreme sacrifice for her. That the sacrifice must be made, he already knew. Knew it even when first Saint-Jeanus's name escaped her lips. She loved Saint-Jeanus, and she believed in him. And he, Clifford, who loved her with every fiber of his being, with all the passionate ardor of his lonely heart, could serve her no better than by accepting this awful humiliation which she put upon him. If he could have justified himself now, he would not have done it, not while she loved Saint-Jeanus, and he, Clifford, was less than nothing to her. What did it matter, after all, what she thought of him? He would have given his life for her love, but short of that everything else was, anyhow, intolerable, her contempt, her hatred. What mattered? Since, to-night, anyhow, he would pass out of her life for ever. He was ready for the sacrifice, sacrifice of pride, of honor, of peace of mind, but he did want to know that that sacrifice would be really needed, and that when made it would not be in vain, and in order to gain this end he put a final question to her. One moment, mademoiselle, he said, Before you go, will you tell me one thing, at least? Was it Messor de Saint-Jeanus himself who accused me of treachery? There is no reason why I should deny it, sir, she replied coldly. It was Messor de Saint-Jeanus himself who gave to my father, and to me, a full account of the interview which he had with you at a lonely inn some few kilometers from Lyons, and less than two hours after we had been shamefully robbed on the high road of money that belonged to the king. And did Messor de Saint-Jeanus tell you, mademoiselle, that I proposed to use that money for mine own ends? Or for those of the Corsican she retorted impatiently, I care not which. Yes, sir, Messor de Saint-Jeanus told me that with his own lips, and when I had heard the whole miserable story of your duplicity and your treachery, I, a helpless, deceived, and feeble woman, did then and there register avow that I, too, would do you some grievous wrong one day, a wrong as great as you had done, not only to the king of France, but to me and to my father, who trusted you, as we would a friend. What you did tonight has, of course, altered the irrevocableness of my vow. I owe perhaps my father's life to your timely intervention, and for this I must be grateful. But her voice broke in a kind of passionate sob, and it took her a moment or two to recover herself, even while Clifford stood by, mute, and with well-nigh broken heart, his very soul so filled with sorrow for her, that there was no room in it even for resentment. Father, let us go now, Crystal said, after a while, with brusque transition, and in a steady voice, no purpose can be served by further recriminations. None, my dear, said the Compte, in his usual polished manner. Personally I have felt all along that explanations could but aggravate the unpleasantness of the present position. Mr. Clifford understands perfectly, I am sure. He had his axe to grind, whether personal or political, we really do not care to know. We are not likely ever to meet again. All we can do now is to thank him for his timely intervention on our behalf, and brand him a liar, broken Clifford almost involuntarily, and with bitter vehemence. Your pardon, Missour, retorted the Compte coldly. Neither my daughter nor I have done that. It is your deeds that condemn you, your own admissions, and the word of Missour de Saint-Jeanus. Would you perchance suggest that he lied? Oh, no, rejoined Clifford, with perfect calmness. It is I who lied, of course. He had said this very slowly, and as if speaking with mature deliberation, not raising his voice, nor yet allowing it to quiver from any stress of latent emotion. And yet there was something in the tone of it, something in the man's attitude that suggested such a depth of passion that quite instinctively the Compte remained silent and odd. For the moment, however, Clifford seemed to have forgotten the older man's presence, wounded in every fiber of his being, by the woman whom he loved so tenderly and so devotedly, he had spoken only to her, compelling her attention and stirring, even by this simple admission of a despicable crime, an emotion in her which she could not, would not define. She turned large, inquiring eyes on him into which she tried to throw all that she felt of hatred and contempt for him. She had meant to wound him. And it seemed indeed as if she had succeeded beyond her dearest wish. By the dim flickering light of the street lamp his face looked haggard and old. The traitor was suffering almost as much as he deserved. Almost as much, Crystal said obstinately to herself, as she had wished him to do. And yet at sight of him now, Crystal felt a strong, unconquerable pity for him, the womanly instinct, no doubt, to heal rather than to hurt. But this pity she was not prepared to show him. She wanted to pass right out of his life to forget once and for all that sense of warmth of the soul, of comfort and of peace, which she had felt in his presence on that memorable evening at Bristolow. Above all, she never wanted to touch his hand again, the hand which seemed to have such power to protect and to shield her, when on that same evening she had placed her own in it. Therefore, now she took her father's arm once more, she turned resolutely to go. One more curt nod of the head, one last look of undying enmity, and then she would pass finally out of his life for ever. How Clifford got back to his lodgings that night he never knew. Crystal, after his final admission, had turned without another word from him, and he had stood there in the lonely, silent street, watching her retreating form on her father's arm, until the mist and gloom swallowed her up as in an elvish grave. Then mechanically he hunted for his hat, and he, too, walked away. That was the end of his life's romance, of course, the woman whom he loved with his very soul, who held his heart, his mind, his imagination captive, whose every look on him was joy, whose every smile was a delight, had gone out of his life for ever. She had turned away from him as she would from a venomous snake. She hated him so cruelly that she would gladly hurt him, do him some grievous wrong if she could, and Clifford was left in utter loneliness, with only a vague, foolish longing in his heart. The longing that one day she might have her wish, and might have the power to wound him to death, bodily just as she had wounded him to the depth of his soul, to-night. For the rest there was nothing more for him to do in France. King Louis was not like to remain at Lille very long. Within twenty-four hours probably he would continue his journey, his flight to Ghent, where once more he would hold his court in exile, with all the fugitive royalists rallied around his tottering throne. Clifford had already received orders from his chief at the intelligence department to report himself first at Lille than if the king and the court had already left at Ghent. If, however, there were plenty of men to do the work of the department, it was his intention to give up his share in it, and to cross over to England as soon as possible, so as to take up the first commission in the new army that he could get. England would be wanting soldiers more urgently than she had ever done before. Mother and sisters would be well looked after. He, Bobby, had earned a fortune for them, and they no longer needed a breadwinner now, whilst England wanted all her sons, for she would surely fight. Clifford, who had seen the English papers that morning as they were brought over by an intelligence courier, had realized that the debates in Parliament could only end one way. England would not tolerate Bonaparte. She would not even tolerate his abdication in favour of his own son. Austria had already declared her intention of renewing the conflict, and so had Prussia. England's decision would, of course, turn the scale, and Bobby, in his own mind, had no doubt which way that decision would go. The man whom the people of France loved, and whom his army idolised, was the disturber of the peace of Europe. No one would believe his protestations of Pacific intentions. Now he had caused too much devastation, too much misery in the past. Who would believe in him for the future? For the sake of that past, and for dread of the future, he must go. Go from whence he could not again return. And Bobby Clifford, remembering Grenoble, remembering Lyons, Villa France, and Nevers, could not altogether suppress a sigh of regret for the brave man, the fine genius, the reckless adventurer who had so boldly scaled for the second time the heights of the capital, oblivious of the fact that the Tarpeyan rock was so dangerously nearer. At this same hour, when Bobby Clifford finally bade adieu to all the vague hopes of happiness which his love for Crystal de Cambre had engendered in his heart, his Willem, companion in the long ago, rival and enemy now, Victor de Marmont, was laying a tribute of twenty-five million francs at the feet of his beloved emperor, and receiving the thanks of the man to serve whom he would gladly have given his life. What reward shall we give you for this service the emperor had deigned to ask? The means to subdue a woman's pride, Sire, and make her thankful to marry me, replied de Marmont promptly. A title, what? queried the emperor. You have everything else you rogue to please a woman's fancy and make her thankful to marry you. A title, Sire, would be a welcome addition, said de Marmont lightly, and the freedom to go and woo her until France and my emperor need me again. Then go and do your wooing, man, and come back here to me in three months, for I doubt not by then the flames of war will have been kindled against me again.