through this double obscurity, he saw the pier extending itself darkly
across the stream; it appeared deserted, but, in that land of ambushes,
there seemed something terrifying in this desertion.

However, they continued to advance, and soon were within sight of the
barrier, scarcely ten cable lengths off; they approached nearer and
nearer, and yet not a single "qui vive!" struck on their ears.

The sailors only saw in this silence a carelessness which rejoiced them;
but their young admiral, more far-seeing, feared some ruse. At last the
prow of the admiral's ship touched the two ships which formed the center
of the barrier, and made the whole line, which was fastened together by
chains, tremble.

Suddenly, as the bearers of the hatchets received the order to board and
cut the chains, a crowd of grappling irons, thrown by invisible hands,
seized hold of the French vessels. The Flemings had forestalled the
intended movement of the French. Joyeuse believed that his enemies were
offering him a mortal combat, and he accepted it with alacrity. He also
threw grappling irons, and the two lines of ships were firmly bound
together. Then, seizing a hatchet, he was the first to jump on a ship,
crying, "Board them! board them!" All his crew followed him, officers
and men, uttering the same cry; but no cry replied to them, no force
opposed their advance.

Only they saw three boats full of men gliding silently over the water,
like three sea-birds.

The assailants rested motionless on the ships which they had conquered
without a struggle.

All at once Joyeuse heard under his feet a crackling sound, and a smell
of sulphur filled the air. A thought crossed his mind, and he ran and
opened a hatchway; the vessel was burning. A cry of, "To our ships!"
sounded through all the line. Each climbed back again more quickly than
he had come in; but Joyeuse, this time, was the last. Just as he reached
his galley, the flames burst out over the whole bridge of boats, like
twenty volcanoes, of which each ship or boat was the crater; the order
was instantly given to cut the ropes and break the chains and
grappling-irons, and the sailors worked with the rapidity of men who
knew that their safety depended on their exertions. But the work was
immense; perhaps they might have detached those thrown by the enemy on
their ships, but they had also to detach those which they themselves had
thrown.

All at once twenty explosions were heard, and each of the French ships
trembled to its center. It was the cannons that defended the port, and
which, fully charged and then abandoned by the Antwerpians, exploded as
the fire gained on them, breaking everything within their reach.

The flames mounted like gigantic serpents along the masts, rolled
themselves round the yards, then, with their forked tongues, came to
lick the sides of the French vessels.

Joyeuse, with his magnificent armor covered with gold, giving calmly,
and in an imperious voice, his orders in the midst of the flames, looked
like a fabulous salamander covered with scales, and at every movement
threw off a shower of sparks. But the explosions became louder than
ever; the gun-room had taken fire, and the vessels were flying in
pieces.

Joyeuse had done his best to free himself, but in vain; the flames had
reached the French ships, and showers of fire fell about him. The
Flemish barrier was broken, and the French burning ships drifted to the
shore. Joyeuse saw that he could not save his ships, and he gave orders
to lower the boats, and land on the left bank. This was quickly done,
and all the sailors were embarked to a man before Joyeuse quitted his
galley. His sang-froid kept every one in order, and each man landed with
a sword or an ax in his hand. Before he had reached the shore, the fire
reached the magazine of his ship, which blew up, lighting the whole
horizon.

Meanwhile, the artillery from the ramparts had ceased, not that the
combat had abated, but that it was so close it was impossible to fire on
enemies without firing on friends also.

The Calvinist cavalry had charged, and done wonders. Before the swords
of its cavaliers a pathway opened, but the wounded Flemings pierced the
horses with their large cutlasses, and in spite of this brilliant
charge, a little confusion showed itself in the French columns, and they
only kept their ground instead of advancing, while from the gates of the
city new troops continually poured out. All at once, almost under the
walls of the city, a cry of "Anjou! France!" was heard behind the mass
of the Antwerpians. This was Joyeuse and his 1,500 sailors, armed with
hatchets and cutlasses. They had to revenge their fleet in flames and
two hundred of their companions burned or drowned.

No one could manage his long sword better than Joyeuse: every blow cut
open a head, every thrust took effect. The group of Flemings on which he
fell were destroyed like a field of corn by a legion of locusts.
Delighted with their first success, they continued to push on; but the
Calvinist cavalry, surrounded by troops, began to lose ground. M. de St.
Aignan's infantry, however, kept their place.

The prince had seen the burning of the fleet, and heard the reports of
the cannon and the explosions, without suspecting anything but a fierce
combat, which must terminate in victory for Joyeuse; for how could a few
Flemish ships fight against the French fleet? He expected, then, every
minute a diversion on the part of Joyeuse, when the news was brought to
him that the fleet was destroyed, and Joyeuse and his men fighting in
the midst of the Flemings. He now began to feel very anxious, the fleet
being the means of retreat, and consequently the safety of the army. He
sent orders to the Calvinist cavalry to try a fresh charge, and men and
horses, almost exhausted, rallied to attack the Antwerpians afresh. The
voice of Joyeuse was heard in the midst of the melée crying, "Hold firm,
M. de St. Aignan. France! France!" and, like a reaper cutting a field of
corn, his sword flew round, and cut down its harvest of men; the
delicate favorite--the Sybarite--seemed to have put on with his cuirass
the strength of a Hercules; and the infantry, hearing his voice above
all the noise, and seeing his sword flashing, took fresh courage, and,
like the cavalry, made a new effort, and returned to the combat.

But now the person that had been called monseigneur came out of the city
on a beautiful black horse. He wore black armor, and was followed by
three hundred well-mounted cavaliers, whom the Prince of Orange had
placed at his disposal.

By a parallel gate came out William himself, with a picked body of
infantry who had not yet appeared.

Monseigneur hastened where he was most wanted, that is to say, where
Joyeuse was fighting with his sailors.

The Flemings recognized him, and opened their ranks, crying, joyfully,
"Monseigneur! monseigneur!" Joyeuse and his men saw the movement, heard
the cries, and all at once found themselves opposed to a new troop.
Joyeuse pushed his horse toward the black knight, and their swords met.
Joyeuse was confident in his armor and his science, but all his thrusts
were skillfully parried, and one of those of his adversary touched him,
and in spite of his armor, drew some drops of blood from his shoulder.

"Ah!" cried the young admiral, "this man is a Frenchman, and what is
more, he has studied fencing under the same master as I have."

At these words the unknown turned away, and tried to find a new
antagonist.

"If you are French," cried Joyeuse, "you are a traitor, for you fight
against your king, your country, and your flag."

The unknown only replied by attacking Joyeuse with fresh fury; but now
Joyeuse was on his guard, and knew with what a skillful swordsman he had
to deal. He parried two or three thrusts with as much skill as fury, and
it was now the stranger who made a step back.

"See!" cried Joyeuse, "what one can do fighting for one's country! A
pure heart and a loyal arm suffice to defend a head without a helmet, a
face without a vizor;" and he threw his helmet far from him, displaying
his noble and beautiful head, with eyes sparkling with pride, youth and
anger.

His antagonist forebore answer, uttered a cry, and struck at his bare
head.

"Ah!" cried Joyeuse, parrying the blow, "I said you were a traitor, and
as a traitor you shall die. I will kill you, and carry off this helmet
which hides and defends you, and hang you to the first tree that I see."

[Illustration: "I SAID YOU WERE A TRAITOR, AND AS A TRAITOR YOU SHALL
DIE."]

But at this moment a cavalier cried:

"Monseigneur, no more skirmishing; your presence is wanted over there."

Glancing toward the point indicated, the unknown saw the Flemings giving
way before the Calvinist cavalry.

"Yes," cried he, "those are the men I wanted."

At this moment so many cavaliers pressed on the sailors, that they made
their first step in retreat.

The black cavalier profited by this movement to disappear in the melée.

A quarter of an hour after the French began to give way. M. de St.
Aignan tried to retreat in good order, but a last troop of 2,000
infantry and 500 horse came out fresh from the city, and fell on this
harassed and already retreating army. It was the old band of the Prince
of Orange, which had fought in turns against the Duc d'Alva, Don John,
Requesens, and Alexander Farnese. In spite of the coolness of the chiefs
and the bravery of many, a frightful rout commenced.

At this moment the unknown fell again on the fugitives, and once more
met Joyeuse with his now diminished band. The young admiral was mounted
on his third horse, two having been killed under him; his sword was
broken, and he had taken from a sailor one of their heavy hatchets,
which he whirled round his head with the greatest apparent ease. From
time to time he turned and faced his enemy, like the wild boar who
cannot make up his mind to fly, and turns desperately on his hunter. The
Flemings, who by monseigneur's advice had fought without cuirasses, were
active in the pursuit, and gave no rest to the Angevin army. Something
like remorse seized the unknown at the sight of this disaster.

"Enough, gentlemen," cried he, in French, "to-night they are driven from
Antwerp, and in a week will be driven from Flanders; ask no more of the
God of battles."

"Ah! he is French," cried Joyeuse; "I guessed it, traitor. Ah! be
cursed, and may you die the death of a traitor."

This furious imprecation seemed to disconcert the unknown more than a
thousand swords raised against him; he turned, and conqueror as he was,
fled as rapidly as the conquered. But this retreat of a single man
changed nothing in the state of affairs. Fear is contagious, it seized
the entire army, and the soldiers began to fly like madmen. The horses
went fast, in spite of fatigue, for they also felt the influence of
fear; the men dispersed to seek a shelter, and in some hours the army,
as an army, existed no longer. This was the time when the dykes were to
be opened. From Lier to Termonde, from Haesdouk to Malines--each little
river, swollen by its tributaries--each canal overflowed, and spread
over the flat country its contingent of furious water.

Thus, when the fugitive French began to stop, having tired out the
Antwerpians, whom they had seen return to the town, followed by the
soldiers of the Prince of Orange--when those who had escaped from the
carnage of the night believed themselves saved, and stopped to breathe
for an instant, some with a prayer, and others with a curse, then a new
enemy, blind and pitiless, was preparing for them. Joyeuse had commanded
his sailors, now reduced to eight hundred, to make a halt; they were the
only persons who had preserved some order, the Comte de St. Aignan
having vainly tried to rally his foot soldiers.

The Duc d'Anjou, at the head of the fugitives, mounted on an excellent
horse, and accompanied by a single servant, pushed forward without
appearing to think of anything.

"He has no heart," cried some.

"His sang-froid is magnificent," said others.

Some hours of repose, from two to six in the morning, restored to the
infantry the strength to continue their retreat; but provisions were
wanting.

As for the horses, they seemed more fatigued than the men, and could
scarcely move, for they had eaten nothing since the day before.

The fugitives hoped to gain Brussels, where the duke had many partisans,
although they were not free from anxiety as to their reception. At
Brussels, which was about eight leagues off, they would find food for
the famishing troops, and a place of security from whence to recommence
the campaign at a more favorable time. M. d'Anjou breakfasted in a
peasant's hut, between Heboken and Heckhout. It was empty, but a fire
still burned in the grate.

The soldiers and officers wished to imitate their chief, and spread
themselves about the village, but found with a surprise mingled with
terror that every house was deserted and empty.

M. de St. Aignan, who had aided them in their search, now called to the
officers:

"March on, gentlemen."

"But we are tired and dying with hunger, colonel."

"Yes, but you are alive; and if you remain here another hour you will be
dead. Perhaps it is already too late."

M. de St. Aignan knew nothing; but he suspected some great danger. They
went on; but two or three thousand men straggled from the main body, or,
worn out with fatigue, lay down on the grass, or at the foot of a tree,
wearied, desolate, and despairing. Scarcely three thousand able men
remained to the Duc d'Anjou.

CHAPTER LXVI.

THE TRAVELERS.

While these disasters, the forerunners of a still greater one, were
taking place, two travelers, mounted on excellent horses, left Brussels
on a fine night, and rode toward Mechlin. They rode side by side,
without any apparent arms but a large Flemish knife, of which the handle
appeared in the belt of one of them. They rode on, each occupied with
thoughts perhaps the same, without speaking a word. They looked like
those commercial travelers who at that time carried on an extensive
trade between France and Flanders. Whoever had met them trotting so
peaceably along the road would have taken them for honest men, anxious
to find a bed after their day's work. However, it was only necessary to
overhear a few sentences of their conversation to lose any such opinion
suggested by their appearance. They were about half a league from
Brussels, when the tallest of them said:

"Madame, you were quite right to set off to-night; we shall gain seven
leagues by it, and shall probably arrive at Mechlin by the time the
result of the attack on Antwerp is known. In two days of short marches,
and you must take easy stages, we shall reach Antwerp."

The person who was called madame, in spite of her male costume, replied
in a voice calm, grave, and sweet:

"My friend, believe me, God will tire of protecting this wicked prince,
and will strike him cruelly; let us hasten to put our projects into
execution, for I am not one of those who believe in fatality, and I
think that men have perfect freedom in will and deed. If we leave his
punishment to God, and do not act ourselves, it was not worth while
living so unhappily until now."

At this moment a blast of north wind, cold and biting, swept across the
plain.

"You shiver, madame," said the other traveler; "take your cloak."

"No, thank you, Remy; I no longer feel pain of body or mind."

Remy rode on silently, only now and then stopping and looking back.

"You see no one behind us?" asked she, after one of these halts.

"No one, madame."

"That cavalier whom we met at Valenciennes, and who inquired about us,
after looking at us so curiously?"

"He is not here, madame."

"But I fancied I saw him again near Mons."

"And I, madame, am sure I saw him just before we entered Brussels."

"Brussels?"

"Yes; but he must have stopped there."

"Remy," said Diana, drawing near him, as if even on that lonely road she
feared to be overheard, "did he not seem to you like (in figure, at
least, for I did not see his face) that unhappy young man?"

"Oh! no, madame, not at all; and besides, how could he have guessed that
we had left Paris, and were traveling along this road?"

"But he found us out when we changed our house in Paris."

"No, madame, I am sure he did not follow us; and, indeed, I believe he
had resolved on a desperate course as regards himself."

"Alas! Remy, every one has his own share of suffering. I trust God will
console this poor youth."

Remy replied with a sigh, and they went on with no other sound than
that of their horses' feet on the hard road. Two hours passed thus. Just
as they were about to enter Vilvoide, Remy turned his head, for he heard
the sound of horses' feet behind them. He stopped and listened, but
could see nothing. His eyes uselessly tried to pierce through the
darkness of the night, and as he no longer heard any sounds, they rode
on and entered the town.

"Madame," said he, "if you will take my advice, you will stay here;
daylight will soon appear, the horses are tired, and you yourself need
repose."

"Remy, you are anxious about something."

"Yes, about your health, madame. Believe me, a woman cannot support so
much fatigue; I can scarcely do so myself."

"As you please, Remy."

"Well, then, enter that narrow street. I see a light at the end of it,
which must proceed from an inn. Be quick, I beg you."

"You have heard something?"

"I thought I heard a horse's feet. I am not sure, but I will stay behind
a minute to find out."

The lady, without replying, went on, and Remy got off his horse and let
him follow her, while he hid himself behind an immense post and waited.
The lady knocked at the door of the inn, behind which, according to the
hospitable custom of the country, watched, or rather slept, a maid
servant. The girl woke up and received the traveler with perfect
good-humor, and then opened the stable-door for the two horses.

"I am waiting for my companion," said Diana; "let me sit by the fire; I
shall not go to bed until he comes."

The servant threw some straw to the horses, shut the stable door, then
returned to the kitchen, put a chair by the fire, snuffed the candle
with her fingers, and went to sleep again.

Meanwhile Remy was watching for the arrival of the traveler whose horse
he had heard. He saw him enter the town and go on slowly, and seeming
to listen; then, seeing the inn, he appeared to hesitate whether to go
there or to continue his journey. He stopped close to Remy, who laid his
hand on his knife.

"It is he again," thought Remy, "and he is following us. What can he
want?"

After a minute the traveler murmured in a low voice, "They must have
gone on, and so will I," and he rode forward.

"To-morrow we will change our route," thought Remy.

And he rejoined Diana, who was waiting impatiently for him.

"Well," said she softly, "are we followed?"

"There is no one, I was wrong; you may sleep in perfect safety, madame."

"I am not sleepy, Remy."

"At least have supper, madame; you have scarcely eaten anything."

"Willingly, Remy."

They reawakened the poor servant, who got up as good-humoredly as
before, and hearing what they wanted, took from the cupboard a piece of
salt pork, a cold leveret, and some sweets, which she set before them,
together with a frothing jug of Louvain beer.

Remy sat down with Diana, who drank half a glass of beer, and ate a
piece of bread. Remy did the same, and then they both rose.

"Are you not going to eat any more?" asked the girl.

"No, thank you, we have done."

"Will you not eat any meat? it is very nice."

"I am sure it is excellent, but we are not hungry."

The girl clasped her hands in astonishment at this strange abstinence;
it was not thus she was used to see travelers eat.

Remy threw a piece of money on the table.

"Oh!" said the girl, "I cannot change all that; six farthings would be
all your bill."

"Keep it all, my girl," said Diana; "it is true my brother and I eat
little, but we pay the same as others."

The servant became red with joy.

"Tell me, my girl," said Remy, "is there any cross-road from here to
Mechlin?"

"Yes, monsieur, but it is very bad, while the regular road is a very
fine one."

"Yes, my child, I know that, but we wish to travel by the other."

"Oh! I told you, monsieur, because, as your companion is a lady, the
road would not do for her."

"Why not?"

"Because to-night a great number of people will cross the country to go
to Brussels."--"To Brussels?"

"Yes; it is a temporary emigration."

"For what reason?"

"I do not know; they had orders."

"From whom--the Prince of Orange?"

"No; from monseigneur."

"Who is he?"

"I do not know, monsieur."

"And who are the emigrants?"

"The inhabitants of the country and of the villages which have no dykes
or ramparts."

"It is strange."

"We ourselves," said the girl, "are to set out at daybreak, as well as
all the other people in the town. Yesterday, at eleven o'clock, all the
cattle were sent to Brussels by canals and cross-roads; therefore on the
road of which you speak there must be great numbers of horses, carts,
and people."

"I should have thought the great road better for all that."

"I do not know; it was the order."

"But we can go on to Mechlin, I suppose?"

"I should think so, unless you will do like every one else, and go to
Brussels."

"No, no, we will go on at once to Mechlin," said Diana, rising; "open
the stable, if you please, my good girl."

"Danger every way," thought Remy; "however, the young man is before us."
And as the horses had not been unsaddled, they mounted again, and the
rising sun found them on the banks of the Dyle.

CHAPTER LXVII.

EXPLANATION.

The danger that Remy braved was a real one, for the traveler, after
having passed the village and gone on for a quarter of a league, and
seeing no one before him, made up his mind that those whom he sought had
remained behind in the village. He would not retrace his steps, but lay
down in a field of clover; having made his horse descend into one of
those deep ditches which in Flanders serve as divisions between the
properties, he was therefore able to see without being seen. This young
man, as Remy knew, and Diana suspected, was Henri du Bouchage, whom a
strange fatality threw once more into the presence of the woman he had
determined to fly. After his conversation with Remy, on the threshold of
the mysterious house, that is to say, after the loss of all his hopes,
he had returned to the Hotel Joyeuse, quite decided to put an end to a
life which he felt to be so miserable, and as a gentleman, and one who
had his name to keep untarnished, he decided on the glorious suicide of
the field of battle.

Therefore, as they were fighting in Flanders, and his brother had a
command there, Henri, on the following day, left his hotel twenty hours
after the departure of Diana and Remy.

Letters from Flanders announced the intended coup de main on Antwerp,
and Henri hoped to arrive in time for it. He pleased himself with the
idea that he should die sword in hand, in his brother's arms, under a
French flag, and that his death would be talked about until the sound
even reached the solitude in which the mysterious lady lived. Noble
follies! glorious, yet sad dreams!

Just as--full of these thoughts--he came in sight of Valenciennes, from
whose church tower eight o'clock was sounding, he perceived that they
were about to close the gates. He pushed on, and nearly overturned, on
the drawbridge, a man who was fastening the girths of his horse. Henri
stopped to make excuses to the man, who turned at the sound of his
voice, and then quickly turned away again. Henri started, but
immediately thought, "I must be mad; Remy here, whom I left four days
ago in the Rue de Bussy; here now, without his mistress. Really, grief
must be turning my brain and making me see everything in the form of my
own fancies." And he continued his way, convinced that his idea had been
pure fancy. At the first hotel that he came to he stopped, gave his
horse to a servant, and sat down on a bench before the door, while they
prepared his bed and supper. But as he sat there he saw two travelers
approaching, and this time he saw more clearly.

"Now," murmured he, "I do not dream, and still I think I see Remy. I
cannot remain in this uncertainty; I must clear up my doubts."

He got up and ran down the road after them, but they had disappeared.
Then he went to all the hotels and questioned the servants, and after
much search discovered that two cavaliers had been seen going toward a
small inn in the Rue de Beffroi. The landlord was just shutting the
doors when Henri entered. While the man offered him rooms and
refreshment, he looked round, and saw on the top of the staircase Remy
going up, lighted by a servant; of his companion he saw nothing. Du
Bouchage had no longer any doubts, and he asked himself, with a dreadful
sinking of the heart, why Remy had left his mistress and was traveling
without her; for Henri had been so occupied in identifying Remy, that he
had scarcely looked at his companion. The next morning when he rose, he
was much surprised to learn that the two travelers had obtained from the
governor permission to go out; and that, contrary to all custom, the
gates had been opened for them. Thus, as they had set out at one
o'clock, they had six hours' start of him. Henri put his horse to the
gallop and passed the travelers at Mons. He saw Remy; but Remy must have
been a sorcerer to know him, for he had on a soldier's great coat and
rode another horse. Nevertheless, Remy's companion, at a word from him,
turned away his head before Henri could see his face. But the young man
did not lose courage; he watched them to their hotel, and then
questioning, with the aid of an irresistible auxiliary, learned that
Remy's companion was a very handsome, but very silent and sad looking
young man. Henri trembled. "Can it be a woman?" asked he.

"It is possible," replied the host: "many women travel thus disguised
just now, to go and rejoin their lovers in Flanders; but it is our
business to see nothing, and we never do."

Henri felt heart-broken at this explanation. Was Remy, indeed,
accompanying his mistress dressed as a cavalier; and was she, as the
host suggested, going to rejoin her lover in Flanders? Had Remy lied
when he spoke of an eternal regret? was this fable of a past love, which
had clothed his mistress forever in mourning, only his invention to get
rid of an importunate watcher?

"If it be so," cried Henri, "the time will come when I shall have
courage to address this woman and reproach her with all the subterfuges
which lower her whom I had placed so high above all ordinary mortals;
and seeing nearer this brilliant envelope of a common mind, perhaps I
shall fall of myself from the height of my illusions and my love."

And the young man tore his hair in despair at the thought of losing the
love which was killing him; for a dead heart is better than an empty
one. So he continued to follow them, and to wonder at the cause which
took to Flanders, at the same time as himself, these two beings so
indispensable to his existence.

At Brussels he gathered information as to the Duc d'Anjou's intended
campaign. The Flemings were too hostile to the duke to receive well a
Frenchman of distinction, and were too proud of their position to
refrain from humiliating a little this gentleman who came from France
and questioned them in a pure Parisian accent, which always seemed
ridiculous to the Belgians. Henri began to conceive serious fears with
reference to this expedition, in which his brother was to bear so
prominent a part, and he resolved in consequence to push on rapidly to
Antwerp. It was a constant surprise to him to see Remy and his
companion, in spite of their desire not to be seen, continue to follow
the same road as himself.

Henri, now hidden in the clover field, felt certain of seeing the face
of the young man who accompanied Remy, and thus putting an end to all
his doubts. As they passed, unsuspicious of his vicinity, Diana was
occupied in braiding up her hair, which she had not dared to untie at
the inn.

Henri recognized her, and nearly fainted. The travelers passed on, and
then anger took, in Henri's mind, the place of the goodness and patience
he had exercised, while he believed Remy and the lady sincere toward
him. But after the protestations of Remy, this journey seemed to him a
species of treason.

When he had recovered a little from the blow, he rose, shook back his
beautiful light hair, and mounted his horse, determined no longer to
take those precautions that respect had made him hitherto observe, and
he began to follow the travelers openly, and with his face uncovered. No
more cloak nor hood, no more stops and hesitation; the road belonged to
him as to them, and he rode on, regulating the pace of his horse by that
of theirs. He did not mean to speak to them, but only to let them see
him. Remy soon perceived him, and, seeing him thus openly advance
without any further attempt at concealment, grew troubled; Diana noticed
it and turned also.

"Is it not that young man following us?"

Remy, still trying to reassure her, said, "I do not think so, madame. As
well as I can judge by the dress, it is some young Walloon soldier going
probably to Amsterdam, and passing by the theater of war to seek
adventures."

"I feel uneasy about him, Remy."

"Reassure yourself, madame, had he been really the Comte du Bouchage, he
would have spoken to us; you know how persevering he was."

"I know also that he was respectful, Remy, or I should never have
troubled myself about him, but simply told you to get rid of him."

"Well, madame, if he be so respectful, you would have no more to fear
from him on this road than in the Rue de Bussy."

"Nevertheless, Remy, let us change our horses here at Mechlin, in order
to get on faster to Antwerp."

"On the contrary, madame, I should say, do not let us enter Mechlin at
all; our horses are good, let us push on to that little village which
is, I think, called Villebrock; in that manner we shall avoid the town,
with its questioners and curious gazers."

"Go on, then, Remy."

They turned to the left, taking a road hardly made, but which visibly
led to Villebrock; Henri also quitted the road, and turned down the
lane, still keeping his distance from them.

Remy's disquietude showed itself in his constantly turning to look
behind him. At last they arrived at Villebrock. Of 200 houses which this
village contained, not one was inhabited; some forgotten dogs and lost
cats ran wildly about the solitude, the former calling for their masters
by long howls. Remy knocked at twenty doors, but found no one. Henri on
his side, who seemed the shadow of the travelers, knocked at the first
house as uselessly as they had done, then, divining that the war was the
cause of this desertion, waited to continue his journey until the
travelers should have decided what to do.

They fed their horses with some corn which they found in an inn, and
then Remy said--

"Madame, we are no longer in a friendly country, nor in an ordinary
situation; we must not expose ourselves uselessly. We shall certainly
fall in with some French, Spanish, or Flemish band, for in the present
state of Flanders, adventures of all kinds must be rife. If you were a
man I should speak differently; but you are a young and beautiful woman,
and would run a double risk for life and honor."

"My life is nothing," said she.

"On the contrary, madame, it is everything. You live for a purpose."

"Well, then, what do you propose? Think and act for me, Remy."

"Then, madame, let us remain here. I see many houses which would afford
us a sure shelter. I have arms, and we will defend or hide ourselves,
as we shall be strong or weak."

"No, Remy, no, I must go on; nothing must stop me; and if I had fears,
they would be for you."

"We will go on then."

They rode on, therefore, without another word, and Henri du Bouchage
followed.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE WATER.

As the travelers advanced, the country took an equally strange aspect,
for it was utterly deserted, as well as the towns and villages. Nowhere
were the calves to be seen grazing in the meadows, nor the goat perched
on the top of the mountain, or nibbling the green shoots of the brier or
young vine; nowhere the shepherd with his flock; nowhere the cart with
its driver; no foreign merchant passing from one country to another with
his pack on his back; no plowman singing his harsh song or cracking his
long whip. As far as the eye could see over the magnificent plains, the
little hills and the woods, not a human figure was to be seen, not a
voice to be heard. It seemed like the earth before the creation of
animals or men. The only people who animated this dreary solitude were
Remy and his companion, and Henri following behind and preserving ever
the same distance. The night came on dark and cold, and the northeast
wind whistled in the air, and filled the solitude with its menacing
sound.

Remy stopped his companion, and putting his hand on the bridle of her
horse, said--

"Madame, you know how inaccessible I am to fear; you know I would not
turn my back to save my life; but this evening some strange feeling
possesses me, and forbids me to go further. Madame, call it terror,
timidity, panic, what you will, I confess that for the first time in my
life I am afraid."

The lady turned.

"Is he still there?" she said.

"Oh! I was not thinking of him; think no more of him, madame, I beg of
you; we need not fear a single man. No, the danger that I fear or
rather feel, or divine with a sort of instinct, is unknown to me, and
therefore I dread it. Look, madame, do you see those willows bending in
the wind?"

"Yes."

"By their side I see a little house; I beg you, let us go there. If it
is inhabited, we will ask for hospitality; and if not, we will take
possession of it. I beg you to consent, madame."

Remy's emotion and troubled voice decided Diana to yield, so she turned
her horse in the direction indicated by him. Some minutes after, they
knocked at the door. A stream (which ran into the Nethe, a little river
about a mile off), bordered with reeds and grassy banks, bathed the feet
of the willows with its murmuring waters. Behind the house, which was
built of bricks, and covered with tiles, was a little garden, encircled
by a quickset hedge.

All was empty, solitary, and deserted, and no one replied to the blows
struck by the travelers. Remy did not hesitate; he drew his knife, cut a
branch of willow, with which he pushed back the bolt and opened the
door. The lock, the clumsy work of a neighboring blacksmith, yielded
almost without resistance. Remy entered quickly, followed by Diana,
then, closing the door again, he drew a massive bolt, and thus
intrenched, seemed to breathe more freely. Feeling about, he found a
bed, a chair, and a table in an upper room. Here he installed his
mistress, and then, returning to the lower room, placed himself at the
window, to watch the movements of Du Bouchage.

His reflections were as somber as those of Remy. "Certainly," said he to
himself, "some danger unknown to us, but of which the inhabitants are
not ignorant, is about to fall on the country. War ravages the land;
perhaps the French have taken, or are about to assault Antwerp, and the
peasants, seized with terror, have gone to take refuge in the towns."

But this reasoning, however plausible, did not quite satisfy him. Then
he thought, "But what are Remy and his mistress doing here? What
imperious necessity drags them toward this danger? Oh, I will know; the
time has come to speak to this woman, and to clear away all my doubts.
Never shall I find a better opportunity."

He approached the house, and then suddenly stopped, with a hesitation
common to hearts in love.

"No," said he, "no, I will be a martyr to the end. Besides, is she not
mistress of her own actions? And, perhaps, she does not even know what
fable was invented by Remy. Oh, it is he alone that I hate; he who
assured me that she loved no one. But still let me be just. Ought this
man for me, whom he did not know, to have betrayed his mistress's
secrets? No, no. All that remains for me now is to follow this woman to
the camp, to see her hang her arms round some one's neck and hear her
say, 'See what I have suffered, and how I love you.' Well, I will follow
her there, see what I dread to see, and die of it; it will be trouble
saved for the musket or cannon. Alas! I did not seek this; I went calmly
to meet a glorious death, and I wished to die with her name on my lips.
It is not so to be; I am destined to a death full of bitterness and
torture. Well, I accept it."

Then, recalling his days of waiting, and his nights of anguish before
the inexorable house, he found that he was less to be pitied here than
at Paris, and he went on.

"I will stay here, and take these trees for a shelter, and then I can
hear her voice when she speaks, and see her shadow on the window."

He lay down, then, under the willows, listening, with a melancholy
impossible to describe, to the murmur of the water that flowed at his
side. All at once he started; the noise of cannon was brought distinctly
to him by the wind.

"Ah!" said he, "I shall arrive too late; they are attacking Antwerp."

His first idea was to rise, mount his horse, and ride on as quickly as
possible; but to do this he must quit the lady, and die in doubt, so he
remained.

During two hours he lay there, listening to the reports. He did not
guess that what he heard was his brother's ships blowing up. At last,
about two o'clock, all grew quiet.

"Now," thought Henri, "Antwerp is taken, and my brother is a conqueror;
but after Antwerp will come Ghent, and then Bruges; I shall not want an
occasion for a glorious death. But before I die I must know what this
woman wants in the French camp."

He lay still, and had just fallen asleep, when his horse, which was
grazing quietly near him, pricked up his ears and neighed loudly.

Henri opened his eyes. The animal had his head turned to the breeze,
which had changed to the southeast, as if listening.

"What is it, my good horse?" said the young man; "have you seen some
animal which frightened you, or do you regret the shelter of your
stable?"

The animal stood still, looking toward Lier, with his eyes fixed and his
nostrils distended, and listening.

"Ah!" said Henri, "it is more serious; perhaps some troops of wolves
following the army to devour the corpses."

The horse neighed and began to run forward to the west, but his master
caught the bridle and jumped on his back, and then was able to keep him
quiet. But after a minute, Henri himself began to hear what the horse
had heard. A long murmur, like the wind, but more solemn, which seemed
to come from different points of the compass, from south to north.

"What is it?" said Henri; "can it be the wind? No, it is the wind which
brings this sound, and I hear the two distinctly. An army in march,
perhaps? But no; I should hear the sound of voices and of regular
marching. Is it the crackling of a fire? No, there is no light in the
horizon; the heaven seems even to grow darker."

The noise redoubled and became distinct; it was an incessant growling
and rolling, as if thousands of cannon were being dragged over a paved
road. Henri thought of this. "But no," said he, "there is no paved road
near."

The noise continued to increase, and Henri put his horse to the gallop
and gained an eminence.

"What do I see?" cried he, as he attained the summit. What he saw his
horse had seen before him; for he had only been able to make him advance
by furious spurring, and when they arrived at the top of the hill he
reared so as nearly to fall backward. They saw in the horizon an
infinite body rolling over the plain, and visibly and rapidly
approaching. The young man looked in wonder at this strange phenomenon,
when, looking back to the place he had come from, he saw the plain
beginning to be covered with water, and that the little river had
overflowed, and was beginning to cover the reeds which a quarter of an
hour before had stood up stiffly on its banks.

"Fool that I am," cried he, "I never thought of it. The water! the
water! The Flemings have broken their dykes!"

Henri flew to the house, and knocked furiously at the door.

"Open! open!" cried he.

No one replied.

"Open, Remy!" cried he, furious with terror; "it is I, Henri du
Bouchage."

"Oh! you need not name yourself, M. le Comte," answered Remy from
within, "I recognized you long ago; but I warn you, that if you break in
the door you will find me behind it, with a pistol in each hand."

"But you do not understand," cried Henri; "the water; it is the water!"

"No fables, no pretexts or dishonorable ruses, M. le Comte; I tell you
that you will only enter over my body."

"Then I will pass over it, but I will enter. In Heaven's name, in the
name of your own safety and your mistress's, will you open?"--"No."

Henri looked round him, and perceived an immense stone. He raised it and
threw it against the door, which flew open. A ball passed over Henri's
head, but without touching him; he jumped toward Remy, and seizing his
other arm, cried, "Do you not see that I have no arms? do not defend
yourself against a man who does not attack. Look! only look!" and he
drew him to the window.

"Well," said he, "do you see now?" and he pointed to the horizon.

"The water!" cried Remy.

"Yes, the water! it invades us; see, at our feet, the river overflows,
and in five minutes we shall be surrounded."

"Madame! madame!" cried Remy.

"Do not frighten her, Remy; get ready the horses at once."

Remy ran to the stable, and Henri flew up the staircase. At Remy's cry
Diana had opened her door; Henri seized her in his arms and carried her
away as he would have done a child. But she, believing in treason or
violence, struggled, and clung to the staircase with all her might.

"Tell her that I am saving her, Remy!" cried Henri.

Remy heard the appeal, and cried:

"Yes, yes, madame, he is saving you, or rather he will save you. Come,
for Heaven's sake!"

CHAPTER LXIX.

FLIGHT.

Henri, without losing time in reasoning with Diana, carried her out of
the house, and wished to place her before him on his horse; but she,
with a movement of invincible repugnance, glided from his arms, and was
received by Remy, who placed her on her own horse.

"Ah, madame!" cried Henri, "how little you understand my heart. It was
not, believe me, for the pleasure of holding you in my arms, or pressing
you to my heart, although for that favor I would sacrifice my life, but
that we ought to fly as quickly as the birds, and look at them, how they
fly!"

Indeed, in the scarcely dawning light were seen large numbers of curlews
and pigeons, traversing the air with a quick and frightened flight,
which, in the night, usually abandoned to the silent bat, looked strange
to the eye, and sounded sinister to the ear.

Diana did not reply, but rode on without turning her head. Her horse,
however, as well as that of Remy, was fatigued with their long journey,
and Henri, as he turned back each moment, saw that they could not keep
up with him.

"See, madame!" said he, "how my horse outstrips yours, and yet I am
holding him in with all my strength; for Heaven's sake, madame, while
there is yet time, if you will not ride with me, take my horse and leave
me yours."

"No, thank you, monsieur," replied she, in her usual calm voice.

"But, madame," cried Henri, in despair, "the water gains on us; do you
hear! do you hear?"

Indeed, a horrible crashing was now heard; it was the dyke of a
neighboring village giving way, to swell the inundation. Boards and
props had given way, a double row of stakes broke with a noise like
thunder, and the water, rushing over the ruins, began to invade an oak
wood, of which they saw the tops trembling, and heard the branches
cracking as though a flight of demons were passing under the leaves.

The uprooted trees knocking against the stakes, the wood of ruined
houses floating on the waters, the distant neighings and cries of horses
and men carried away by the inundation, formed a concert of sounds so
strange and gloomy that the terror which agitated Henri began to seize
also upon Diana. She spurred her horse, and he, as if he understood the
danger, redoubled his efforts. But the water gained on them, and before
ten minutes it was evident that it would reach them. Every instant Henri
turned and cried, "Quicker, madame! for pity's sake; the water comes;
here it is!"

It came, indeed, foaming and turbulent, carrying away like a feather the
house in which they had taken shelter; and majestic, immense, rolling
like a serpent, it arrived like a wall behind the horses of Remy and
Diana. Henri uttered a cry of terror, and turned on the water, as though
he would have fought it.

"You see you are lost!" screamed he. "Come, madame, perhaps there is
still time; come with me."

"No, monsieur," said she.

"In a minute it will be too late; look!" cried he.

Diana turned; the water was within fifty feet of her.

"Let my fate be accomplished," said she; "you, monsieur, fly."

Remy's horse, exhausted, fell, and could not rise again, despite the
efforts of his rider.

"Save her in spite of herself," cried Remy.

And at the same moment, as he disengaged himself from the stirrups, the
water passed over the head of the faithful servant. His mistress, at
this sight, uttered a terrible cry, and tried to jump off her horse to
perish with him. But Henri, seeing her intention, seized her round the
waist, and placing her before him, set off like an arrow.

"Remy! Remy!" cried she, extending her arms. A cry was the only answer.
Remy had come up to the surface, and, with the indomitable hope which
accompanies the dying man to the last, was swimming, sustained by a
beam. By his side came his horse, beating the water desperately with his
feet, while the water gained on Diana's horse, and some twenty feet in
front Henri and Diana flew on the third horse, which was half mad with
terror.

Remy scarcely regretted life, since he hoped that his loved mistress
would be saved.

"Adieu, madame!" cried he. "I go first to him who waits for us, to tell
him that you live for--"

He could not finish; a mountain of water rolled over his head.

"Remy! Remy!" cried the lady, "I wish to die with you. I will! monsieur,
I will go to him; in the name of God, I will!"

She pronounced these words with so much energy and angry authority, that
the young man unfolded his arms and let her slip to the ground, saying--

"Well, madame, we will all three die here together; it is a joy I had
not hoped for."

As he said these words he stopped his horse, and the water reached them
almost immediately; but, by a last effort of love, the young man kept
hold of Diana's arm as she stood on the ground. The flood rolled over
them. It was a sublime spectacle to see the sang-froid of the young man,
whose entire bust was raised above the water, while he sustained Diana
with one arm, and with the other guided the last efforts of his expiring
horse.

There was a moment of terrible struggle, during which the lady, upheld
by Henri, kept her head above water, while with his left hand he kept
off the floating wood and the corpses which would have struck against
them.

One of the bodies floating past sighed out, "Adieu, madame!"

"Heavens!" cried Henri, "it is Remy!" And without calculating the danger
of the additional weight, he seized him by his sleeve, drew him up, and
enabled him to breath freely. But the exhausted horse now sank in the
water to its neck, then to its eyes, and finally disappeared altogether.

"We must die," murmured Henri. "Madame, my life and soul belonged to
you."

As he spoke, he felt Remy slip from him, and he no longer tried to
retain him--it was useless. His only care was to sustain Diana above the
water, that she at least, might die the last, and that he might be able
to say to himself, in his last moments, that he had done his utmost to
save her. All at once, a joyful cry sounded at his side; he turned, and
saw Remy, who had found a boat, which had belonged to the little house
where they had taken shelter, and which the water had carried away.
Remy, who had regained his strength, thanks to Henri's assistance, had
seized it as it floated past. The oars were tied to it, and an iron hook
lay in the bottom. He held out the hook to Henri, who seized it, and
drawing Diana with him, raised her over his shoulders, and passed her to
Remy, and then climbed in himself. The first rays of the rising sun
showed them the plains inundated, and the boat swimming like an atom on
that ocean covered with wrecks. Toward the left rose a little hill,
completely surrounded by water, looking like an island in the midst of
the sea. Henri took the oars and rowed toward it, while Remy, with the
boat-hook, occupied himself in keeping off the beams and wrecks which
might have struck against them. Thanks to Henri's strength and Remy's
skill, they reached, or, rather, were thrown against, the hill. Remy
jumped out, and, seizing the chain, drew the boat toward him; Diana,
rising alone, followed him, and then Henri, who drew up the boat and
seated himself a little way from them. They were saved from the most
menacing danger, for the inundation, however strong, could never reach
to the summit of the hill. Below them they could see that great angry
waste of waters, which seemed inferior in power only to God himself;
and, by the increasing light, they perceived that it was covered with
the corpses of French soldiers.

Remy had a wound in his shoulder, where a floating beam had struck
against him; but Diana, thanks to Henri's protection, was free from all
injury, although she was cold and wet. At last they noticed in the
horizon, on the eastern side, something like fires burning on a height
which the water could not reach. As well as they could judge, they were
about a league off. Remy advanced to the point of the hill, and said
that he believed he saw a jetty advancing in a direct line toward the
fires. But they could see nothing clearly, and knew not well where they
were, for though day was dawning, it came cloudily and full of fog; had
it been clear and under a pure sky, they might have seen the town of
Mechlin, from which they were not more than two leagues distant.

"Well, M. le Comte," said Remy, "what do you think of those fires?"

"Those fires, which seem to you to announce a hospitable shelter, appear
to me to be full of danger."

"And why so?"

"Remy," said Henri, lowering his voice, "look at these corpses; they are
all French--there is not one Fleming; they announce to us a great
disaster. The dykes have been broken to finish the destruction of the
French army, if it has been conquered--to nullify the victory, if they
have been victors. Those fires are as likely to have been lighted by
enemies as by friends, and may be simply a ruse to draw fugitives to
destruction."

"Nevertheless, we cannot stay here; my mistress will die of cold and
hunger."

"You are right, Remy; remain here with madame, and I will go to the
jetty, and return to you with news."

"No, monsieur," said Diana, "you shall not expose yourself alone; we
have been saved together; we will live or die together. Remy, your arm.
I am ready."

Each word which she pronounced had so irresistible an accent of
authority that no one thought of disputing it. Henri bowed, and walked
first.

It was more calm; the jetty formed, with the hill, a kind of bay, where
the water slept. All three got into the little boat, which was once more
launched among the wrecks and floating bodies. A quarter of an hour
after, they touched the jetty. They tied the chain of the boat to a
tree, landed once more, walked along the jetty for nearly an hour, and
then arrived at a number of Flemish huts, among which, in a place
planted with lime trees, were two or three hundred soldiers sitting
round a fire, above whom floated the French flag. Suddenly a sentinel,
placed about one hundred feet from the bivouac, cried, "Qui vive?"

"France," replied Du Bouchage. Then, turning to Diana, he said, "Now,
madame, you are saved. I recognize the standard of the gendarmes of
Aunis, a corps in which I have many friends."

At the cry of the sentinel and the answer of the comte several gendarmes
ran to meet the new comers, doubly welcome, in the midst of this
terrible disaster, as survivors and compatriots. Henri was soon
recognized; he was eagerly questioned, and recounted the miraculous
manner in which he and his companions had escaped death. Remy and Diana
had sat down silently in a corner; but Henri fetched them and made them
come to the fire, for both were still dripping with water.

"Madame," said he, "you will be respected here as in your own house. I
have taken the liberty of calling you one of my relations."

And without waiting for the thanks of those whose lives he had saved, he
went away to rejoin the officers.

The gendarmes of Aunis, of whom our fugitives were claiming
hospitality, had retired in good order after the defeat and the sauve
qui peut of the chiefs. Whereever there is similarity of position and
sentiment, and the habit of living together, it is common to find
unanimity in execution as well as in thought. It had been so that night
with the gendarmes of Aunis; for seeing their chiefs abandon them, they
agreed together to draw their ranks closer, instead of breaking them.
They therefore put their horses to the gallop, and, under the conduct of
one of the ensigns, whom they loved for his bravery and respected for
his birth, they took the road to Brussels.

Like all the actors in this terrible scene, they saw the progress of the
inundation, and were pursued by the furious waters; but by good luck
found in this spot a position strong both against men and water. The
inhabitants, knowing themselves in safety, had not quitted their homes,
and had only sent off their women, children, and old men to Brussels;
therefore the gendarmes met with resistance when they arrived; but death
howled behind them, and they attacked like desperate men, triumphed over
all obstacles, lost ten men, but established the others, and turned out
the Flemings.

Such was the recital which Henri received from them.

"And the rest of the army?" asked he.

"Look," replied the ensign; "the corpses which pass each moment answer
your question."

"But--my brother," said Henri, in a choking voice.

"Alas! M. le Comte, we do not know. He fought like a lion, but he
survived the battle; as to the inundation I cannot say."

Henri shook his head sadly; then, after a minute's pause, said, "And the
duke?"

"Comte, the duke fled one of the first. He was mounted on a white horse,
with no spot but a black star on the forehead. Well, just now we saw the
horse pass among a mass of wrecks, the foot of a rider was caught in the
stirrup and was floating on the water."

"Great God!"

"Good heavens!" echoed Remy, who had drawn near and heard the tale.

"One of my men ventured down into the water and seized the reins of the
floating horse, and drew it up sufficiently to enable us to see the
white boot and gold spur that the duke wore. But the waters were rushing
past, and the man was forced to let go to save himself, and we saw no
more. We shall not even have the consolation of giving a Christian
burial to our prince."

"Dead! he also? the heir to the crown! What a misfortune!"

Remy turned to his mistress, and with an expression impossible to
describe, said,

"He is dead, madame, you see."

"I praise the Lord, who has spared us a crime," said she, raising her
eyes to heaven.

"Yes, but it prevents our vengeance."

"Vengeance only belongs to a man when God forgets."

"But you, yourself, comte," said the ensign to Henri, "what are you
about to do?"

The comte started. "I?" said he.

"Yes."

"I will wait here till my brother's body passes," replied he, gloomily,
"then I will try to draw him to land. You may be sure that if once I
hold him, I shall not let go."

Remy looked pityingly at the young man; but Diana heard nothing--she was
praying.

CHAPTER LXX.

TRANSFIGURATION.

After her prayer Diana rose so beautiful and radiant that the comte
uttered a cry of surprise and admiration. She appeared to be waking out
of a long sleep, of which the dreams had fatigued her and weighed upon
her mind; or rather, she was like the daughter of Jairus, called from
death and rising from her funeral couch, already purified and ready for
heaven. Awakening from her lethargy, she cast around her a glance so
sweet and gentle, that Henri began to believe he should see her feel for
his pain, and yield to a sentiment of gratitude and pity. While the
gendarmes, after their frugal repast, slept about among the ruins, while
Remy himself yielded to it, Henri came and sat down close to Diana, and
in a voice so low and sweet that it seemed a murmur of the breeze, said:

"Madame, you live. Oh! let me tell you all the joy which overflows my
heart when I see you here in safety, after having seen you on the
threshold of the tomb."

"It is true, monsieur," replied she; "I live through you, and I wish I
could say I was grateful."

"But, madame," replied Henri, with an immense effort, "if it is only
that you are restored to those you love?"

"What do you mean?"

"To those you are going to rejoin through so many perils."

"Monsieur, those I loved are dead! those I am going to rejoin are so
also."

"Oh, madame!" cried Henri, falling on his knees, "throw your eyes on
me--on me, who have suffered so much and loved so much. Oh, do not turn
away; you are young, and beautiful as the angels in heaven; read my
heart, which I open to you, and you will see that it contains not an
atom of that love that most men feel. You do not believe me? Examine the
past hours; which of them has given me joy, or even hope? yet I have
persevered. You made me weep; I devoured my tears. You made me suffer; I
hid my sufferings. You drove me to seek death, and I went to meet it
without a complaint. Even at this moment, when you turn away your head,
when each of my words, burning as they are, seems a drop of iced water
falling on your heart, my soul is full of you, and I live only because
you live. Just now, was I not ready to die with you? What have I asked
for? Nothing. Have I touched your hand? Never, but to draw you from a
mortal peril. I held you in my arms to draw you from the waves--nothing
more. All in me has been purified by the devouring fire of my love."

"Oh, monsieur! for pity's sake do not speak thus to me."

"Oh, in pity do not condemn me. He told me you loved no one; oh! repeat
to me this assurance; it is a singular favor for a man in love to ask to
be told that he is not loved, but I prefer to know that you are
insensible to all. Oh, madame, you who are the only adoration of my
life, reply to me."

In spite of Henri's prayers, a sigh was the only answer.

"You say nothing," continued the comte; "Remy at least had more pity for
me, for he tried to console him. Oh! I see you will not reply, because
you do not wish to tell me that you came to Flanders to rejoin some one
happier than I, and yet I am young, and am ready to die at your feet."

"M. le Comte," replied Diana, with majestic solemnity, "do not say to me
things fit only to be said to a woman; I belong to another world, and do
not live for this. Had I seen you less noble--less good--less generous,
had I not for you in the bottom of my heart the tender feeling of a
sister for a brother, I should say, 'Rise, comte, and do not importune
with love my ears, which hold it in horror.' But I do not say so, comte,
because I suffer in seeing you suffer. I say more; now that I know you,
I will take your hand and place it on my heart, and I will say to you
willingly, 'See, my heart beats no more; live near me, if you like, and
assist day by day, if such be your pleasure, at this painful execution
of a body which is being killed by the tortures of the soul;' but this
sacrifice, which you may accept as happiness--"

"Oh, yes!" cried Henri, eagerly.

"Well, this sacrifice I ought to forbid. This very day a change has
taken place in my life; I have no longer the right to lean on any human
arm--not even on the arm of that generous friend, that noble creature,
who lies there, and for a time finds the happiness of forgetfulness.
Alas! poor Remy," continued she, with the first change of tone that
Henri remarked in her voice, "your waking will also be sad; you do not
know the progress of my thought; you cannot read in my eyes that you
will soon be alone, and that alone I must go to God."

"What do you mean, madame? do you also wish to die?"

Remy, awakened by the cry of the young count, began to listen.

"You saw me pray, did you not?" said Diana.

"Yes," answered Henri.

"This prayer was my adieu to earth; the joy that you remarked on my
face--the joy that fills me even now, is the same you would see in me if
the angel of death were to come and say to me, 'Rise, Diana, and follow
me.'"

"Diana! Diana! now I know your name; Diana, cherished name!" murmured
the young man.

"Oh, silence!" cried she, "forget this name which escaped me; no living
person has the right to pierce my heart by pronouncing it."

"Oh! madame, do not tell me you are going to die."

"I do not say that," replied she in her grave voice; "I say that I am
about to quit this world of tears--of hatreds--of bad passions--of vile
interests and desires. I say that I have nothing left to do among the
creatures whom God created my fellow mortals; I have no more tears, no
more blood in my heart; no more thoughts--they are dead. I am a
worthless offering, for in renouncing the world I sacrifice nothing,
neither desires nor hopes; but such as I am I offer myself to my God,
and he will accept me--he who has made me suffer so much, and yet kept
me from sinking under it."

Remy, who had heard this, rose slowly, and said, "You abandon me?"

"For God," said Diana, raising her thin white hand to heaven.

"It is true," said Remy, sadly; and seizing her hand he pressed it to
his breast.

"Oh! what am I by these two hearts?" said Henri.

"You are," replied Diana, "the only human creature, except Remy, on whom
I have looked twice for years."

Henri knelt. "Thanks, madame," said he, "I bow to my destiny. You belong
to God; I cannot be jealous."

As he rose, they heard the sound of trumpets on the plain, from which
the water was rapidly disappearing. The gendarmes seized their arms and
were on horseback at once.

Henri listened. "Gentlemen," cried he, "those are the admiral's
trumpets; I know them. Oh, God! may they announce my brother!"

"You see that you still wish something, and still love something; why,
then, should you choose despair, like those who desire nothing--like
those who love no one?"

"A horse!" cried Henri; "who will lend me a horse?"

"But the water is still all around us," said the ensign.

"But you see that the plain is practicable; they must be advancing,
since we hear their trumpets."

"Mount to the top of the bank, M. le Comte, the sky is clear, perhaps
you will see."

Henri climbed up; the trumpets continued to sound at intervals, but were
seemingly stationary.

CHAPTER LXXI.

THE TWO BROTHERS.

A quarter of an hour after, Henri returned; he had seen a considerable
detachment of French troops intrenched on a hill at some distance.
Excepting a large ditch, which surrounded the place occupied by the
gendarmes of Aunis, the water had begun to disappear from the plain, the
natural slope of the ground in the immediate neighborhood making the
waters run toward the sea, and several points of earth, higher than the
rest, began to reappear. The slimy mud brought by the rolling waters had
covered the whole country, and it was a sad spectacle to see, as the
wind cleared the mist, a number of cavaliers stuck in the mud, and
trying vainly to reach either of the hills. From the other hill, on
which the flag of France waved, their cries of distress had been heard,
and that was why the trumpets had sounded. The gendarmes now sounded
their cornets, and were answered by guns in joyful recognition. About
eleven o'clock the sun appeared over this scene of desolation, drying
some parts of the plain, and rendering practicable a kind of road.
Henri, who tried it first, found that it led by a detour from where they
were to the opposite hill, and he believed that though his horse might
sink to a certain extent, he would not sink altogether. He therefore
determined to try it, and recommending Diana and Remy to the care of the
ensign, set off on his perilous way. At the same time as he started,
they could see a cavalier leave the opposite hill, and, like Henry, try
the road. All the soldiers seemed trying to stop him by their
supplications. The two men pursued their way courageously, and soon
perceived that their task was less difficult than had been feared. A
small stream of water, escaped from a broken aqueduct, washed over the
path, and little by little was clearing away the mud. The cavaliers were
within two hundred feet of each other.

"France!" cried the one who came from the opposite hill, at the same
time raising his hat, which had a white plume in it.

"Oh! it is you!" cried Henri, with a burst of joy.

"You, Henri! you, my brother!" cried the other.

And they set off as quickly as their horses could manage to go, and
soon, among the frantic acclamations of the spectators on each side,
embraced long and tenderly. Soon, all--gendarmes and light
horse--Huguenots and Catholics--rushed along the road, pioneered by the
two brothers. Soon the two camps were joined, and there, where they had
thought to find death, nearly 3,000 Frenchmen cried, "Thank God!" and
"Vive la France!"

"Gentlemen," said a Huguenot officer, "it is 'Long live the admiral,'
you should cry, for it is to M. de Joyeuse alone that we now owe the
happiness of embracing our countrymen."

Immense acclamations followed this speech. The two brothers talked for
some time, and then Joyeuse asked Henri if he had heard news of the
duke.

"It appears he is dead," replied Henri.

"Is that certain?"

"The gendarmes saw his horse drowned, and a rider, whose head was under
water, dragged by the stirrup."

"It has been a sad day for France," said Joyeuse. Then turning to his
men he said, "Come, gentlemen, let us not lose time. Once the waters
have retired we shall probably be attacked. Let us intrench ourselves
until the arrival of news and food."

"But, monseigneur," said a voice, "the horses have eaten nothing since
four o'clock yesterday, and are dying with hunger."

"We have corn in our encampment," said the ensign, "but what shall we do
for the men?"

"Oh!" said Joyeuse, "if there be corn, that is all I ask; the men must
live like the horses."

"Brother," said Henri, "I want a little conversation with you."

"Go back to your place; choose a lodging for me, and wait for me there."

Henri went back.

"We are now in the midst of an army," said he to Remy; "hide yourselves
in the lodging I will show you, and do not let madame be seen by any
one."

Remy installed himself with Diana in the lodging pointed out. About two
o'clock the Duc de Joyeuse entered with his trumpets blowing, lodged his
troops, and gave strict injunctions to prevent disorder. He distributed
barley to the men, and hay to the horses, and to the wounded some wine
and beer, which had been found in the cellars, and himself, in sight of
all, dined on a piece of black bread and a glass of water. Everywhere he
was received as a deliverer with cries of gratitude.

"Now," said he to his brother, when they were alone, "let the Flemings
come, and I will beat them, and even, if this goes on, eat them, for in
truth I am very hungry, and this is miserable stuff," added he, throwing
into a corner the piece of bread, which in public he had eaten so
enthusiastically.

"But now, Henri, tell me how it happens that I find you in Flanders when
I thought you in Paris."

"My brother," said Henri, "life became insupportable to me at Paris,
and I set out to join you in Flanders."

"All from love?" asked Joyeuse.

"No, from despair. Now, Anne, I am no longer in love; my passion is
sadness."

"My brother, permit me to tell you that you have chosen a miserable
woman. Virtue that cares not for the sufferings of others is
barbarous--is an absence of Christian charity."

"Oh! my brother, do not calumniate virtue."

"I do not calumniate virtue, Henri; I accuse vice, that is all. I repeat
that this is a miserable woman, and not worth all the torments she makes
you suffer. Oh! mon Dieu! in such a case you should use all your
strength and all your power, Henri. In your place, I should have taken
her house by assault, and then herself; and when she was conquered, and
came to throw her arms round your neck and say, 'Henri, I adore you,' I
should have repulsed her, and said, 'You do well, madame; it is your
turn--I have suffered enough for you--to suffer also.'"

Henri seized his brother's hand. "You do not mean a word of what you
say," said he.

"Yes, on my honor."

"You, so good--so generous!"

"Generosity with heartless people is folly."

"Oh! Joyeuse, Joyeuse, you do not know this woman."

"No, I do not wish to know her."

"Why not?"

"Because she would make me commit what others would call a crime, but
which I should call an act of justice."

"Oh! my good brother, how lucky you are not to be in love. But, if you
please, let us leave my foolish love, and talk of other things."

"So be it; I do not like to talk of your folly."

"You see we want provisions."

"Yes, and I have thought of a method of getting them."

"What is it?"

"I cannot leave here until I have certain news of the army--for the
position is good, and I could defend myself against five times our
number: but I may send out a body of scouts, and they will bring news
and provisions also, for Flanders is a fine country."

"Not very, brother."

"I speak of it as God made it, and not men, who eternally spoil the
works of God. Do you know, Henri, what folly this prince committed--what
this unlucky Francois has lost through pride and precipitation? His soul
is gone to God, so let us be silent; but in truth he might have acquired
immortal glory and one of the most beautiful kingdoms in Europe, while
he has, on the contrary, aided no one but William of Orange. But do you
know, Henri, that the Antwerpians fought well?"

"And you also; so they say, brother."

"Yes, it was one of my good days; and besides there was something that
excited me."

"What was it?"

"I met on the field of battle a sword that I knew."

"French?"

"Yes, French."

"In the ranks of the Flemings?"

"At their head, Henri; this is a secret which forms a sequel to
Salcede's business."

"However, dear brother, here you are, safe and sound, to my great joy;
I, who have done nothing yet, must do something, also."

"And what will you do?"

"Give me the command of your scouts, I beg."

"No, it is too dangerous, Henri; I would not say so before strangers,
but I do not wish you to die an obscure death. The scouts may meet with
some of those horrid Flemings who fight with flails and scythes; you
kill one thousand of them, and the last cuts you in two or disfigures
you. No, Henri; if you will die, let it be a more glorious death than
that."

"My brother, grant me what I ask, I beg; I promise you to be prudent,
and to return here."

"Well, I understand."

"What?"

"You wish to try if the fame of a brave action will not soften the
heart of this ferocious tigress. Confess that that is what makes you
insist on it."

"I will confess it if you wish, brother."

"Well, you are right. Women who resist a great love sometimes yield to
fame."

"I do not hope that."

"If you do it without this hope you are mad. Henri, seek no more reasons
for this woman's refusal than that she has neither eyes nor heart."

"You give me the command, brother?"

"I must, if you will have it so."

"Can I go to-night?"

"You must, Henri; you understand we cannot wait long."

"How many men do you give me?"

"A hundred; not more. I cannot weaken my force here, you know, Henri."

"Less, if you like, brother."

"No, I would wish to give you double. Only promise me, on your honor,
that if you meet with more than three hundred men, you will retreat and
not get killed."

"My brother," said Henri, smiling, "you sell your glory very dear."

"Then I will neither sell nor give it to you; and another officer shall
command."

"My brother, give your orders and I will execute them."

"You will only engage with equal, double, or triple forces, but not with
more?"

"I swear it."

"Very well; now, what men would you like to take?"

"Let me take one hundred of the gendarmes of Aunis; I have plenty of
friends there, and can choose whom I like."

"That will do."

"When shall I set out?"

"At once. Take one day's rations for the men and two for the horses.
Remember, I want speedy and certain news."

"I go, brother; are there any other orders?"

"Do not spread the news of the duke's death; let it be believed he is
here. Exaggerate my strength, and if you find the duke's body, although
he was a bad man and a poor general, yet, as he belonged to the royal
house of France, have it put in an oak coffin and brought back by your
men, that he may be buried at St. Denis."

"Good, brother; now, is this all?"

"All! but promise me once more, Henri, you are not deceiving me--you
will not seek death?"

"No, brother; I had that thought when I came to join you, but I have it
no longer."

"And when did it leave you?"

"Three hours ago."

"On what occasion?"

"Excuse me, brother."

"Of course, Henri, your secrets are your own."

"Oh! how good you are, brother!"

And the young men, once more embracing each other, separated with
smiles.

CHAPTER LXXII.

THE EXPEDITION.

Henri, full of joy, hastened to Diana and Romy.

"Get ready; in a quarter of an hour we set out," said he. "You will find
two horses saddled at the door of the little wooden staircase leading to
this corridor: join my suite and say nothing."

Then, going out on the balcony, he cried:

"Trumpet of the gendarmes, sound the call."

The call was quickly heard, and all the gendarmes ranged themselves
round the house.

"Gendarmes," said Henri, "my brother has given me, for the time, the
command of your company, and has ordered me to set out to-night to
obtain provisions and information as to the movements of the enemy, and
one hundred of you are to accompany me; the mission is dangerous, but
necessary for the safety of all. Who are willing to go?" The whole three
hundred offered themselves.

"Gentlemen," said Henri, "I thank you all; you have rightly been called
the example to the army, but I can but take one hundred; and as I do not
wish to choose, let chance decide. Monsieur," continued he, to the
ensign, "draw lots, if you please."

While this was being done, Joyeuse gave his last instructions to his
brother.

"Listen, Henri," said he; "the country is drying, and there is a
communication between Courteig and Rupelmonde; you will march between a
river and a stream--the Scheldt and the Rupel. I trust that there will
be no necessity for you to go as far as Rupelmonde to find provisions.
My men took three peasants prisoners; I give one of them to you for a
guide--but no false pity! at the least appearance of treason shoot him
without mercy."

He then tenderly embraced his brother, and gave the order for departure.
The one hundred men drawn by lots were ready, and the guide was placed
between two, with pistols in their hands, while Remy and his companion
mixed with the rest. Henri gave no directions about them, thinking that
curiosity was already quite sufficiently aroused about them, without
augmenting it by precautions more dangerous than salutary. He himself
did not stay by them, but rode at the head of his company. Their march
was slow, for often the ground nearly gave way under them, and they sank
in the mud. Sometimes figures were seen flying over the plain; they were
peasants who had been rather too quick in returning to their homes, and
who fled at the sight of the enemy. Sometimes, however, they were
unlucky Frenchmen, half dead with cold and hunger, and who in their
uncertainty of meeting with friends or enemies, preferred waiting for
daylight to continue their painful journey.

They traversed two leagues in three hours, which brought the adventurous
band to the banks of the Rupel, along which a stony road ran; but here
danger succeeded to difficulty, and two or three horses lost their
footing on the slimy stones, and rolled with their riders into the still
rapid waters of the river. More than once also, from some boat on the
opposite bank, shots were fired, and one man was killed at Diana's side.
She manifested regret for the man, but no fear for herself. Henri, in
these different circumstances, showed himself to be a worthy captain and
true friend; he rode first, telling all the men to follow in his steps,
trusting less to his own sagacity than to that of the horse his brother
had given him. Three leagues from Rupelmonde the gendarmes came upon six
French soldiers sitting by a turf fire; the unfortunates were cooking
some horse-flesh, the only food they had had for two days. The approach
of the gendarmes caused great trouble among the guests at this sad
feast; two or three rose to fly, but the others stopped them, saying,
"If they are enemies they can but kill us, and all will be over."

"France! France!" cried Henri.

On recognizing their countrymen they ran to them, and were given cloaks
to wrap round them and something to drink, and were allowed to mount en
croup behind the valets, and in this manner they accompanied the
detachment. Half a league further on they met four men of the 4th Light
Horse, with, however, only one horse between them; they were also
welcomed. At last they arrived on the banks of the Scheldt; the night
was dark, and the gendarmes found two men who were trying, in bad
Flemish, to obtain from a boatman a passage to the other side, which he
refused. The ensign, who understood Dutch, advanced softly, and heard
the boatman say, "You are French, and shall die here; you shall not
cross."

"It is you who shall die, if you do not take us over at once," replied
one of the men, drawing his dagger.

"Keep firm, monsieur," cried the ensign, "we will come to your aid."

But as the two men turned at these words, the boatman loosened the rope,
and pushed rapidly from the shore. One of the gendarmes, however,
knowing how useful this boat would be, went into the stream on his horse
and fired at the boatman, who fell. The boat was left without a guide,
but the current brought it back again toward the bank. The two strangers
seized it at once and got in. This astonished the ensign.

"Gentlemen," said he, "who are you, if you please?"

"Gentlemen, we are marine officers, and you are gendarmes of Aunis,
apparently."

"Yes, gentlemen, and very happy to have served you; will you not
accompany us?"

"Willingly."

"Get into the wagons, then, if you are too tired to ride."

"May we ask where are you going?" said one.

"Monsieur, our orders are to push on to Rupelmonde."

"Take care," answered he. "We did not pass the stream sooner, because
this morning a detachment of Spaniards passed, coming from Antwerp. At
sunset we thought we might venture, for two men inspire no disquietude;
but you, a whole troop--"

"It is true; I will call our chief."

Henri approached, and asked what was the matter.

"These gentlemen met this morning a detachment of Spaniards following
the same road as ourselves."

"How many were they?"

"About fifty."

"And does that stop you?"

"No, but I think it would be well to secure the boat, in case we should
wish to pass the stream; it will hold twenty men."

"Good! let us keep the boat. There should be some houses at the junction
of the Scheldt and Rupel?"

"There is a village," said a voice.

"Then let two men descend the stream with the boat, while we go along
the bank."

"We will bring the boat if you will let us," said one of the officers.

"If you wish it, gentlemen; but do not lose sight of us, and come to us
in the village."

"But if we abandon the boat some one will take it?"

"You will find ten men waiting, to whom you can deliver it."

"It is well," said one, and they pushed off from the shore.

"It is singular," said Henri, "but I fancy I know that voice."

An hour after they arrived at the village, which was occupied by the
fifty Spaniards, but they, taken by surprise when they least expected
it, made little resistance. Henri had them disarmed and shut up in the
strongest house in the village, and left ten men to guard them. Ten more
were sent to guard the boat, and ten others placed as sentinels, with
the promise of being relieved in an hour. Twenty of the others then sat
down in the house opposite to that in which the prisoners were, to the
supper which had been prepared for them. Henri chose a separate room for
Remy and Diana; he then placed the ensign at table with the others,
telling him to invite the two naval officers when they arrived. He next
went out to look for accommodation for the rest of the men, and when he
returned in half-an-hour he found them waiting supper for him. Some had
fallen asleep on their chairs, but his entrance roused them. The table,
covered with cheese, pork, and bread, with a pot of beer by each man,
looked almost tempting. Henri sat down and told them to begin.

"Apropos!" said he, "have the strangers arrived?"

"Yes, there they are at the end of the table."

Henri looked and saw them in the darkest corner of the room.

"Gentlemen," said he, "you are badly placed, and I think you are not
eating."

"Thanks, M. le Comte," said one, "we are very tired, and more in need of
rest than food; we told your officers so, but they insisted, saying that
it was your orders that we should sup with you. We feel the honor, but
if, nevertheless, instead of keeping us longer you would give us a
room--"

"Is that also the wish of your companion?" said Henri, and he looked at
this companion, whose hat was pushed down over his eyes, and who had not
yet spoken.

"Yes, comte," replied he, in a scarcely audible voice.

Henri rose, walked straight to the end of the table, while every one
watched his movements and astonished look.

"Monsieur," said he, to the one who had spoken first, "do me a favor?"

"What is it, M. le Comte?"

"Tell me if you are not Aurilly's brother, or Aurilly himself?"

"Aurilly!" cried all.

"And let your companion," continued Henri, "raise his hat a little and
let me see his face, or else I shall call him monseigneur, and bow
before him." And as he spoke he bowed respectfully, hat in hand. The
officer took off his hat.

"Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou!" cried all. "The duke, living!"

"Ma foi, gentlemen," replied he, "since you will recognize your
conquered and fugitive prince, I shall not deny myself to you any
longer. I am the Duc d'Anjou."

"Vive, monseigneur!" cried all.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

PAUL-EMILE.

"Oh! silence, gentlemen," said, the prince, "do not be more content than
I am at my good fortune. I am enchanted not to be dead, you may well
believe; and yet, if you had not recognized me, I should not have been
the first to boast of being alive."

"What! monseigneur," cried Henri, "you recognized me--you found yourself
among a troop of Frenchmen, and would have left us to mourn your loss,
without undeceiving us?"

"Gentlemen, besides a number of reasons which made me wish to preserve
my incognito, I confess that I should not have been sorry, since I was
believed to be dead, to hear what funeral oration would have been
pronounced over me."

"Monseigneur!"

"Yes; I am like Alexander of Macedon; I make war like an artist, and
have as much self-love; and I believe I have committed a fault."

"Monseigneur," said Henri, lowering his eyes, "do not say such things."

"Why not? The pope only is infallible, and ever since Boniface VIII.
that has been disputed."

"See to what you exposed us, monseigneur, if any of us had given his
opinion on this expedition, and it had been blamed."

"Well, why not? do you think I have not blamed myself, not for having
given battle, but for having lost it."

"Monseigneur, this goodness frightens me; and will your highness permit
me to say that this gayety is not natural. I trust your highness is not
suffering."

A terrible cloud passed over the prince's face, making it as black as
night.

"No," said he, "I was never better, thank God, than now, and I am glad
to be among you all."

The officers bowed.

"How many men have you, Du Bouchage?" asked he.

"One hundred, monseigneur."

"Ah! a hundred out of ten thousand; that is like the defeat at Cannes.
Gentlemen, they will send a bushel of your rings to Antwerp, but I doubt
if the Flemish beauties could wear them, unless they had their fingers
pared by their husbands' knives, which, I must say, cut well."

"Monseigneur," replied Henri, "if our battle was like the battle of
Cannes, at least we are more lucky than the Romans, for we have
preserved our Paulus-Emilius!"

"On my life, gentlemen, the Paulus-Emilius of Antwerp was Joyeuse; and
doubtless, to preserve the resemblance with his heroic model to the end,
your brother is dead, is he not, Du Bouchage?"

Henri felt wounded at this cold question.

"No, monseigneur, he lives," replied he.

"Ah! so much the better," said the duke, with his icy smile. "What! our
brave Joyeuse lives! Where is he, that I may embrace him?"

"He is not here, monseigneur."

"Ah! wounded?"

"No, monseigneur, he is safe and sound."

"But a fugitive like me, wandering, famished, and ashamed. Alas! the
proverb is right--'For glory, the sword; after the sword, blood; after
blood, tears.'"

"Monseigneur, I am happy to tell your highness that my brother has been
happy enough to save three thousand men, with whom he occupies a large
village about seven leagues from here, and I am acting as scout for
him."

The duke grew pale.

"Three thousand men! he has saved three thousand men! he is a perfect
Xenophon, and it is very lucky for me that my brother sent him to me. It
is not the Valois who can take for their motto 'Hilariter.'"

"Oh! monseigneur," said Henri, sadly, seeing that this gayety hid a
somber jealousy.

"It is true, is it not, Aurilly?" continued the duke; "I return to
France like Francois after the battle of Pavia; all is lost but honor.
Ah! ah!"

A sad silence received these laughs, more terrible than sobs.

"Monseigneur," said Henri, "tell me how the tutelary genius of France
saved your highness."

"Oh! dear comte, the tutelary genius of France was occupied with
something else, and I had to save myself."

"And how, monseigneur?"

"By my legs."

No smile welcomed this joke, which the duke would certainly have
punished with death if made by another.

"Yes, yes," he continued; "how we ran! did we not, my brave Aurilly?"

"Every one," said Henri, "knows the calm bravery and military genius of
your highness, and we beg you not to distress us by attributing to
yourself faults which you have not. The best general is not invincible,
and Hannibal himself was conquered at Zama."

"Yes, but Hannibal had won the battles of Trebia, Thrasymene, and
Cannes, while I have only won that of Cateau-Cambresis; it is not enough
to sustain the comparison."

"But monseigneur jests when he says he ran away."

"No, I do not. Pardieu! do you see anything to jest about, Du Bouchage?"

"Could any one have done otherwise?" said Aurilly.

"Hold your tongue, Aurilly, or ask the shade of St. Aignan what could
have been done."

Aurilly hung his head.

"Ah! you do not know the history of St. Aignan. I will tell it to you.
Imagine, then, that when the battle was declared to be lost, he
assembled 500 horse, and, instead of flying like the rest, came to me
and said. 'We must attack them, monseigneur.' 'What! attack?' said I;
'they are 100 to one.' 'Were they 1,000 to one, I would attack them,'
replied he, with a hideous grimace. 'Attack if you please,' said I; 'I
do not.' 'Give me your horse, and take mine,' said he: 'mine is
fresh--yours is not; and as I do not mean to fly, any horse is good for
me.' And then he took my white horse and gave me his black one, saying,
'Prince, that horse will go twenty leagues in four hours if you like.'
Then, turning to his men, he cried, 'Come, gentlemen, follow me--all
those who will not turn their backs;' and he rode toward the enemy with
a second grimace, more frightful than the first. He thought he should
have met men, but he met water instead, and St. Aignan and his paladins
were lost. Had he listened to me, instead of performing that act of
useless foolhardiness, we should have had him at this table, and he
would not have been making, as he probably now is, a grimace still
uglier than the first."

A thrill of horror ran through the assembly.

"This wretch has no heart," thought Henri. "Oh! why does his misfortune
and his birth protect him from the words I long to say to him?"

"Gentlemen," said Aurilly, in a low voice--for he felt the effect these
words had produced--"you see how monseigneur is affected; do not heed
what he says, for since his misfortune I think he has really moments of
delirium."

"And so," continued the duke, emptying his glass, "that is how St.
Aignan is dead and I alive. However, in dying he did me a last service,
for it was believed, as he rode my horse, that it was me, and this
belief spread not only among the French, but among the Flemings, who
consequently ceased their pursuit; but reassure yourselves, gentlemen,
we shall have our revenge, and I am mentally organizing the most
formidable army that ever existed."

"Meanwhile, monseigneur," said Henri, "will your highness take the
command of my men? It is not fit that I should continue to do so when
you are here."

"So be it; and, first, I order every one to sup, particularly you, Du
Bouchage--you have eaten nothing."

"Monseigneur, I am not hungry."

"In that case return to visit the posts. Tell the chiefs that I live,
but beg them not to rejoice too openly until we gain a better citadel,
or rejoin the army of our invincible Joyeuse, for I confess I do not
wish to be taken now, after having escaped from fire and water."

"Monseigneur, you shall be strictly obeyed, and no one shall know
excepting ourselves that we have the honor of your company among us."

"And these gentlemen will keep the secret?" said the duke, looking
round.

All bowed, and Du Bouchage went out.

It only required an hour for this fugitive, this conquered runaway, to
become again proud, careless, and imperious. To command 100 men or
100,000 men, was still to command.

While Du Bouchage executed his orders with the best grace he could,
Francois asked questions. He was astonished that a man of the rank of Du
Bouchage had consented to take the command of this handful of men, and
of such a perilous expedition. The duke was always suspicious, and
asked, therefore, and learned that the admiral had only yielded to his
brother's earnest request. It was the ensign who gave this
information--he who had been superseded in his command by Henri himself,
as Henri had been by the duke.

The prince fancied he detected a slight irritation in this man's mind
against Du Bouchage; therefore he continued to interrogate him.

"But," said he, "what was the comte's reason for soliciting so earnestly
such a poor command?"

"First, zeal for the service, no doubt."

"First!--what else?"

"Ah! monseigneur, I do not know."

"You deceive me--you do know."

"Monseigneur, I can give only, even to your highness, public reasons."

"You see," said the duke, turning to the others, "I was quite right to
hide myself, gentlemen, since there are in my army secrets from which I
am excluded."

"Ah! monseigneur," said the ensign, "you misunderstand me; there are no
secrets but those which concern M. du Bouchage. Might it not be, for
example, that, while serving the general interests, he might have wished
to render a service to some friend or relation by escorting him?"

"Who here is a friend or relation of the comte? Tell me, that, I may
embrace him."

"Monseigneur," said Aurilly, mixing in the conversation, "I have
discovered a part of the secret. This relation whom M. du Bouchage
wished to escort is--a lady."

"Ah! ah! why did they not tell me so frankly. That dear Henri--it is
quite natural. Let us shut our eyes to the relation, and speak of her no
more."

"You had better not, monseigneur, for there seems a great mystery."

"How so?"

"Yes, the lady, like the celebrated Bradamante, about whom I have so
often sung to your highness, disguises herself in the dress of a man."

"Oh! monseigneur," cried the ensign, "M. du Bouchage seems to me to have
a great respect for this lady, and probably would be very angry at any
indiscretion.'"

"Doubtless, monsieur; we will be mute as sepulchers--as mute as poor St.
Aignan; only, if we see the lady, we will try not to make grimaces at
her. Where is this lady, Aurilly?"--"Upstairs."

"Upstairs! what, in this house?"

"Yes, monseigneur; but hush! here is M. du Bouchage."

"Hush!" said the prince, laughing.

CHAPTER LXXIV.

ONE OF THE SOUVENIRS OF THE DUC D'ANJOU.

Henri, as he entered, could hear the hateful laugh of the prince, but he
had not lived enough with him to know the danger that always lurked in
his laugh. Besides, he could not suspect the subject of conversation,
and no one dared to tell him in the duke's presence. Besides, the duke,
who had already settled his plan, kept Henri near him until all the
other officers were gone. He then changed the distribution of the posts.
Henri had established his quarters in that house, and had intended to
send the ensign to a post near the river, but the duke now took Henri's
place, and sent him where the ensign was to have been. Henri was not
astonished, for the river was an important point. Before going, however,
he wished to speak to the ensign, and recommend to his care the two
people under his protection, and whom he was forced for the time to
abandon. But at the first word that Henri began to speak to him the duke
interposed. "Secrets?" said he, with his peculiar smile.

The ensign had understood, when too late, the fault he had been guilty
of.

"No, monseigneur," replied he, "M. le Comte was only asking me how much
powder we had left fit to use."

The answer had two aims; the first to turn away the duke's suspicions,
if he had any; and the second to let Du Bouchage know that he could
count on a friend in him.

"Ah!" said the duke, forced to seem to believe what he was told. And as
he turned to the door the ensign whispered to Henri, "The prince knows
you are escorting some one."

Henri started, but it was too late. The duke remarked the start, and, as
if to assure himself that his orders were executed, proposed to Henri to
accompany him to his post, which he was forced to accede to.

Henri wished to warn Remy to be on his guard, but it was impossible; all
he could do was to say to the ensign:

"Watch well over the powder; watch it as I would myself, will you not?"

"Yes, M. le Comte," replied the young man.

On the way the duke said to Du Bouchage, "Where is this powder that you
speak of?"

"In the house we have just left, your highness."

"Oh! be easy, then, Du Bouchage; I know too well the importance of such
an article, in our situation, to neglect it. I will watch over it
myself."

They said no more until they arrived, when the duke, after giving Henri
many charges not to quit his post, returned. He found Aurilly wrapped in
an officer's cloak, sleeping on one of the seats in the dining-room. The
duke woke him. "Come," said he.

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes! the unknown lady--the relation of M. du Bouchage."

"Good; I see that the faro of Brussels and the beer of Louvain have not
clouded your intellects."

"Oh! no, monseigneur, I am more ingenious than ever."

"Then call up all your imagination, and guess."

"Well! I guess that your highness is envious."

"Ah! parbleu, I always am; but what is it about just now?"

"You wish to know who is the brave creature who has followed the MM. de
Joyeuse through fire and water?"

"You have just hit it, 'per mille pericula Martis!' as Margot would say.
Apropos, have you written to her, Aurilly?"

"To whom, monseigneur?"

"To my sister Margot."

"Had I to write to her?"

"Certainly."

"About what?"

"To tell her that we are beaten--ruined, and that she must look out for
herself; for that Spain, disembarrassed of me in the north, will fall on
her in the south."

"Ah! true."

"You have not written?"

"No, monseigneur."

"You slept?"

"Yes, I confess it; but even if I had thought of it, with what could I
have written? I have here neither pen, paper, nor ink."

"Well, seek. 'Quare et invenies,' as it is written."

"How in the devil's name am I to find it in the hut of a peasant, who
probably did not know how to write?"

"Seek, stupid! if you do not find that, you will find--"

"What?"

"Something else."

"Oh! fool that I was," cried Aurilly. "Your highness is right: I am
stupid; but I am very sleepy, you see."

"Well, keep awake for a little while, and, since you have not written, I
will write; only go and seek what is necessary. Go, Aurilly, and do not
come back till you have found it; I will remain here."

"I go, monseigneur."

"And if, in your researches, you discover that the house is
picturesque--you know how I admire Flemish interiors, Aurilly."

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Well! call me."

"Immediately, monseigneur; be easy."

Aurilly rose, and, with a step light as a bird, went up the staircase.
In five minutes he returned to his master.

"Well?" asked he.

"Well, monseigneur, if I may believe appearances, the house is
devilishly picturesque."

"How so?"

"Peste! monseigneur; because one cannot get in to look."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it is guarded by a dragon."

"What foolish joke is this?"

"Oh! monseigneur, it is unluckily not a foolish joke, but a sad truth.
The treasure is on the first floor, in a room in which I can see light
through the door."

"Well?"

"Well! before this door lies a man, wrapped in a gray cloak."

"Oh, oh! M. du Bouchage puts a gendarme at the door of his mistress."

"It is not a gendarme, monseigneur, but some attendant of the lady's or
of the count's."--"What kind of a man?"

"Monseigneur, it was impossible to see his face; but I could perfectly
see a large Flemish knife in his belt, and his hand, on it."

"It is amusing; go and waken the fellow."

"Oh, no, monseigneur."

"Why not?"

"Why, without counting the knife, I do not wish to amuse myself with
making a mortal enemy of MM. de Joyeuse, who stand so well at court. If
you had been king of this country, it might have passed; but now you
must be gracious, above all with those who saved you, and Joyeuse did
save you. They will say so, whether you do or not."--"You are right,
Aurilly, and yet--and yet--"

"I understand. Your highness has not seen a woman's face for fifteen
mortal days. I do not speak of the kind of animals who live here; they
are males and females, but do not deserve to be called men and women."

"I must see this lady, Aurilly."

"Well, monseigneur, you may see her; but not through the door."

"So be it; then I will see her through the window."

"Ah! that is a good idea, and I will go and look for a ladder for you."

Aurilly glided into the courtyard, and under a shed found what he
wanted. He maneuvered it among horses and men so skillfully as to wake
no one, and placed it in the street against the outer wall. It was
necessary to be a prince, and sovereignly disdainful of vulgar scruples,
to dare, in the presence of the sentinel, who walked up and down before
the door, to accomplish an action so audaciously insulting to Du
Bouchage. Aurilly felt this, and pointed out the sentinel, who, now
observing, called out, "Qui vive!"

Francois shrugged his shoulders and walked up to him.

"My friend," said he, "this place is the most elevated spot in the
village, is it not?"

"Yes, monseigneur," said the man, recognizing him, "and were it not for
those lime trees, we could see over a great part of the country."

"I thought so; and therefore I have brought a ladder," said the duke.
"Go up, Aurilly, or rather, let me go up; I will see for myself."

"Where shall I place it?" said the hypocritical follower.

"Oh, anywhere; against that wall, for instance."

The sentinel walked off, and the duke mounted the ladder, Aurilly
standing at the foot.

The room in which Henri had placed Diana was matted, and had a large
oaken bed with serge curtains, a table, and a few chairs.

Diana, whose heart seemed relieved from an enormous weight since she had
heard the false news of the duke's death, had, almost for the first time
since her father's death, eaten something more substantial than bread,
and drunk a little wine. After this she grew sleepy, and Remy had left
her, and was sleeping outside her door, not from any suspicion, but
because such had been his habit ever since they had left Paris.

Diana herself slept with her elbow on the table and her head leaning on
her hand. A little lamp burned on the table, and all looked peaceful
here, where such tempestuous emotions had raged and would soon again. In
the glass sparkled the Rhine wine, scarcely touched by Diana. She, with
her eyes closed, her eyelids veined with azure, her mouth slightly
opened, her hair thrown back, looked like a sublime vision to the eyes
that were violating the sanctity of her retreat. The duke, on perceiving
her, could hardly repress his admiration, and leaned over to examine
every detail of her ideal beauty. But all at once he frowned, and came
down two or three steps with a kind of nervous precipitation, and
leaning back against the wall, crossed his arms and appeared to reflect.
Aurilly watched him as he stood there, with a dreamy air, like a man
trying to recall some old souvenir. After a few minutes he remounted and
looked in again, but Aurilly called out, "Quick! quick! monseigneur,
come down; I hear steps."

The duke came down, but slowly.

"It was time," said Aurilly.

"Whence comes the sound?"

"From there," said Aurilly, pointing to a dark street. "But the sound
has ceased; it must have been some spy watching us."

"Remove the ladder."

Aurilly obeyed; however, no one appeared, and they heard no more noise.

"Well, monseigneur, is she beautiful?" said Aurilly.

"Very beautiful," said the prince, abstractedly.

"What makes you sad then? Did she see you?"

"No, she was asleep."

"Then what is the matter?"

"Aurilly, it is strange, but I have seen that woman somewhere."

"You recognized her, then?"

"No, I could not think of her name; but her face gave me a fearful
shock. I cannot tell how it is; but I believe I did wrong to look."

"However, just on account of the impression she has made on you, we must
find out who she is."

"Certainly we must."

"Seek well in your memory, monseigneur; is it at court you have seen
her?"

"No, I think not."

"In France, Navarre, Flanders?"

"No."

"A Spaniard perhaps."

"I do not think so."

"An English lady, one of Queen Elizabeth's?"

"No, I seem to know her more intimately, and that she appeared to me in
some terrible scene."

"Then you would have recognized her at once; you have not seen many such
scenes."

"Do you think so?" said the duke, with a gloomy smile. "Now," continued
he, "that I am sufficiently master of myself to analyze my sensations, I
feel that this woman is beautiful, but with the beauty of death;
beautiful as a shade, as a figure in a dream; and I have had two or
three frightful dreams in my life, which left me cold at the heart.
Well, now I am sure that it was in one of those dreams that I saw that
woman."

"Your highness is not generally so susceptible, and but that I believe
that we are watched from that street, I would mount in my turn and
look."

"Ma foi! you are right, Aurilly; what does it matter whether we are
watched or not? Go up and look."

Aurilly made a move forward to obey, when a hasty step was heard, and
Henri's voice, crying, "Monseigneur!"

"You here!" said the duke, while Aurilly bounded back to his side; "you
here, comte?--on what pretext have you quitted your post?"

"Monseigneur," replied Henri, firmly, "your highness can punish me, if
you think proper: meanwhile, my duty was to come here, and I came."

The duke glanced toward the window. "Your duty, comte? Explain that to
me," said he.

"Monseigneur, horsemen have been seen on the Spanish side of the river,
and we do not know if they are friends or enemies."

"Numerous?" asked the duke anxiously.

"Very numerous, monseigneur."

"Well, comte, no false bravery: you will do well to return. Awake the
gendarmes and let us decamp; it will be the most prudent plan."

"Doubtless, monseigneur; but it will be urgent, I think, to warn my
brother."

"Two men will do."

"Then I will go with a gendarme."

"No, no, Du Bouchage; you must come with us. Peste! it is not at such a
moment that I can separate from a defender like you."

"When does your highness set out?" said Henri, bowing.

"At once, comte."

"Hola! some one," cried Henri.

The young ensign came out immediately from the dark street. Henri gave
his orders, and soon the place was filled with gendarmes preparing for
departure. Among them the duke talked with his officers.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the Prince of Orange is pursuing me, it seems;
but it is not proper that a son of France should be taken prisoner. Let
us, therefore, yield to numbers, and fall back upon Brussels. I shall be
sure of life and liberty while I remain among you."

Then, turning to Aurilly, "You remain," said he. "This woman cannot
follow us. Joyeuse will not dare to bring her with him in my presence.
Besides, we are not going to a ball, and the race we shall run would
fatigue a lady."

"Where are you going, monseigneur?"

"To France. I think my business is over here."

"But to what part of France. Does monseigneur think it prudent to return
to court?"

"No; I shall stop at one of my castles, Chateau-Thierry, for example."

"Has your highness decided on that?"

"Yes; Chateau-Thierry suits me in all respects; it is a good distance
from Paris, about twenty-eight leagues, and I can watch from thence MM.
de Guise, who are half the year at Soissons. So bring the beautiful
unknown to Chateau-Thierry."

"But, monsieur, perhaps she will not be brought."

"Nonsense; since Du Bouchage accompanies me, and she follows him, it
will be quite natural."

"But she may wish to go somewhere else, if she sees that I wish to bring
her to you."

"But I repeat that it is not to me that you are to bring her, but to the
comte. Really, one would think it was the first time you had aided me in
such circumstances. Have you money?"

"I have the two rouleaux of gold that you gave me when you left the
camp."

"Well, by any and every method, bring me the lady to Chateau-Thierry;
perhaps when I see her nearer I shall recognize her."

"And the man also?"

"Yes; if he is not troublesome."

"But if he is?"

"Do with him what you would do with a stone which is in your way--throw
it away."

"Good, monseigneur."

While the two conspirators formed their plans, Henri went up and woke
Remy. He knocked at the door in a peculiar fashion, and it was almost
immediately opened by Diana. Behind Remy she perceived Henri.

"Good-evening, monsieur," said she, with a smile which had long been
foreign to her face.

"Oh! pardon me, madame," said Henri, "for intruding on you; but I come
to make my adieux."

"Your adieux, comte; you are going?"

"To France, madame."

"And you leave us?"

"I am forced to do so; my duty is to obey the prince."

"The prince; is there a prince here?" asked Remy.

"Yes, M. le Duc d'Anjou, who was believed dead, and who has been
miraculously saved, has joined us."

Diana uttered a terrible cry, and Remy turned as pale as though he had
been suddenly struck with death.

"The Duc d'Anjou living!" cried Diana. "The Duc d'Anjou here?"

"Had he not been here, madame, and ordered me to follow him, I should
have accompanied you to the convent into which you tell me you are about
to retire."

"Yes, yes," said Remy; "the convent;" and he put his finger on his lip.

"I would have accompanied you the more willingly, madame." said Henri;
"because I fear that you may be annoyed by the prince's people."--"How
so?"

"Yes; I believe that he knows there is a lady here, and he thinks that
she is a friend of mine."

"And what makes you think so?"

"Our young ensign saw him place a ladder against this window and look
in."

"Oh!" cried Diana; "mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"

"Reassure yourself, madame! he heard him say that he did not know you.
Besides, the duke is going to set off at once--in a quarter of an hour
you will be alone and free. Permit me to salute you with respect, and to
tell you once more, that till my last sigh, my heart will beat for you
and with you. Adieu, madame, adieu." And the comte, bowing, took two
steps back.

"No, no!" cried Diana, wildly, "no, God cannot have done this! He cannot
have brought this man to life again; no, monsieur, you must be wrong, he
is dead."

At this moment, as if in reply, the duke's voice was heard calling from
below:

"Comte, we are waiting for you."

"You hear him, madame," said Henri. "For the last time, adieu."

And pressing Remy's hand, he flew down the staircase. Diana approached
the window trembling, and with a convulsive shudder, like the bird
fascinated by the serpent of the Antilles. She saw the duke on
horseback, and the light of the torches held by the gendarmes fell on
his face.

"Oh! he lives! the demon lives!" murmured she; "and we must live also.
He is setting out for France; so be it, Remy, we also must go to
France."

CHAPTER LXXV.

HOW AURILLY EXECUTED THE COMMISSION OF THE DUC D'ANJOU.

To the confusion occasioned by the departure of the troops a profound
silence succeeded. When Remy believed the house to be empty, he went
down to prepare for his departure and that of Diana; but on opening the
door of the room below, he was much surprised to see a man sitting by
the fire, evidently watching him, although he pretended to look
careless. Remy approached, according to his custom, with a slow, halting
step, and uncovering his head, bald like that of an old man. He could
not, however, see the features of the man by the fire.

"Pardon, monsieur," said he, "I thought myself alone here."

"I also thought so," replied the man, "but I see with pleasure that I
shall have companions."

"Oh! very sad companions, monsieur; for except an invalid young man whom
I am taking back to France--"

"Ah!" said Aurilly, "I know whom you mean."

"Really."

"Yes; you mean the young lady."

"What young lady?"

"Oh! do not be angry, my good friend; I am the steward of the house of
Joyeuse, and I rejoined my young master by his brother's order, and at
his departure the comte recommended to my good offices a young lady and
an old servant, who were returning to France."

As he thus spoke, he approached Remy with a smiling and affectionate
look. But Remy stepped back, and a look of horror was painted for an
instant on his face.

"You do not reply; one would say you were afraid of me," said Aurilly,
with his most smiling face.

"Monsieur," replied Remy, "pardon a poor old man, whom his misfortunes
and his wounds have rendered timid and suspicious."

"All the more reason, my friend, for accepting the help and support of
an honest companion; besides, as I told you just now, I speak on the
part of a master who must inspire you with confidence."

"Assuredly, monsieur," replied Remy, who, however, still moved back.

"You quit me," said Aurilly.

"I must consult my mistress; I can decide nothing, you understand."

"Oh! that is natural; but permit me to present myself. I will explain my
directions in all their details."

"No, no, thank you: madame is perhaps asleep, and her sleep is sacred to
me."

"As you wish. Besides, I have told you what my master told me to say."

"To me?"

"To you and the young lady."

"Your master, M. le Comte du Bouchage, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, monsieur."

When he had shut the door, all the appearances of age vanished, except
the bald head, and Remy mounted the staircase with an agility more like
a young man of twenty-five, than the old man he had appeared to be a few
minutes before.

"Madame! madame!" cried he, in an agitated voice.

"Well, what is it, Remy; is not the duke gone?"

"Yes, madame, but there is a worse demon here; a demon on whom, during
six years, I have daily called down Heaven's vengeance, as you have on
his master."

"Aurilly?"

"Yes, Aurilly; the wretch is below, forgotten by his infernal
accomplice."

"Forgotten, do you say, Remy? Oh! you are wrong; you, who know the
duke, know that he never leaves to chance any evil deed, if he can do it
himself. No, no, Remy; Aurilly is not forgotten, but left here for some
bad design, believe me!"

"Oh! about him, madame, I can believe anything."

"Does he know me?"

"I do not think so."

"And did he recognize you?"

"Oh! madame," said Remy, with a sad smile, "no one recognizes me."

"Perhaps he guesses who I am?"

"No, for he asked to see you."

"I am sure he must have suspicions."

"In that case nothing is more easy, and I thank God for pointing out our
path so plainly. The village is deserted, the wretch is alone. I saw a
poniard in his belt, but I have a knife in mine."

"One moment, Remy; I do not ask the life of that wretch of you, but
before you kill him, let us find out what he wants of us; perhaps we may
make his evil intentions useful. How did he represent himself to you,
Remy?"

"As the steward of M. du Bouchage, madame."

"You see he lies; therefore, he has some reason for lying. Let us find
out his intentions, and conceal our own."

"I will act as you wish, madame."

"What does he ask now?"

"To accompany us."

"In what character?"

"As the count's steward."

"Tell him I accept."

"Oh! madame."

"Add that I am thinking of going to England, where I have relations, but
have not quite decided; lie like him, Remy; to conquer we must fight
with equal arms."

"But he will see you?"

"I will wear my mask. Besides, I suspect he knows me."

"Then, if he knows you, there must be a snare."

"Let us pretend to fall into it."

"But--"

"What do you fear, we can but die? Are you not ready to die for the
accomplishment of our vow?"

"Yes, but not to die without vengeance."

"Remy," cried Diana, her eyes sparkling with wild excitement, "be easy,
we will be revenged; you on the servant, and I on the master."

"Well, madame, then, so be it."

And Remy went down, but still hesitating.

The brave young man had, at the sight of Aurilly, felt, in spite of
himself, that nervous shudder that one feels at the sight of a reptile;
he wished to kill him because he feared him. But as he went down, his
resolution returned, and he determined, in spite of Diana's opinion, to
interrogate Aurilly--to confound him, and if he discovered that he had
any evil intentions, to kill him on the spot.

Aurilly waited for him impatiently. Remy advanced armed with an
unshakable resolution, but his words were quiet and calm.

"Monsieur," said he, "my mistress cannot accept your proposal."

"And why not?"

"Because you are not the steward of M. du Bouchage."

Aurilly grew pale. "Who told you so?" said he.

"No one; but M. du Bouchage, when he left, recommended to my care the
person whom I accompany, and never spoke of you."

"He only saw me after he left you."

"Falsehoods, monsieur; falsehoods."

Aurilly drew himself up--Remy looked like an old man.

"You speak in a singular tone, my good man," said he, frowning; "take
care, you are old, and I am young; you are feeble, and I am strong."

Remy smiled, but did not reply.

"If I wished ill to you or your mistress," continued Aurilly. "I have
but to raise my hand."

"Oh!" said Remy, "perhaps I was wrong, and you wish to do her good."

"Certainly I do."

"Explain to me then what you desire."

"My friend, I will make your fortune at once, if you will serve me."

"And if not?"

"In that case, as you speak frankly, I will reply as frankly, that I
will kill you; I have full power to do so."

"Kill me!" said Remy. "But if I am to serve you, I must know your
projects."

"Well, you have guessed rightly, my good man; I do not belong to the
Comte du Bouchage."

"Ah! and to whom do you belong?"

"To a more powerful lord."

"Take care; you are lying again."

"Why so?"

"There are not many people above the house of Joyeuse."

"Not that of France?"

"Oh! oh!"

"And see how they pay." said Aurilly, sliding into Remy's hand one of
the rouleaux of gold.

Remy shuddered and took a step back, but controlling himself, said:

"You serve the king?"

"No, but his brother, the Duc d'Anjou."

"Oh! very well! I am the duke's most humble servant."

"That is excellent."

"But what does monseigneur want?"

"Monseigneur," said Aurilly, trying again to slip the gold into Remy's
hand, "is in love with your mistress."

"He knows her, then?"

"He has seen her."

"Seen her! when?"

"This evening."

"Impossible; she has not left her room."

"No, but the prince, by his conduct, has shown that he is really in
love."

"Why, what did he do?"

"Took a ladder and climbed to the balcony."--"Ah! he did that?"

"Yes, and it seems she is very beautiful."

"Then you have not seen her?"

"No; but from what he said I much wish to do so, if only to judge of the
exaggeration of his love. Thus, then, it is agreed; you will aid me?"
and he again offered him the gold.

"Certainly I will, but I must know what part I am to play," said Remy,
repulsing his hand.

"First tell me is the lady the mistress of M. du Bouchage, or of his
brother?"

The blood mounted to Remy's face.

"Of neither," said he: "the lady upstairs has no lover."

"No lover! But then she is a wonder; morbleu! a woman who has no lover!
we have found the philosopher's stone."

"Then," said Remy, "what does M. le Duc d'Anjou want my mistress to do?"

"He wants her to come to Chateau-Thierry, where he is going at his
utmost speed."

"This is, upon my word, a passion very quickly conceived."

"That is like monseigneur."

"I only see one difficulty," said Remy.

"What is that?"

"That my mistress is about to embark for England."

"Diable! this, then, is where you must try to aid me."--"How?"

"By persuading her to go in an opposite direction."

"You do not know my mistress, monsieur; she is not easily persuaded.
Besides, even if she were persuaded to go to Chateau-Thierry instead of
England, do you think she would yield to the prince?"

"Why not?"

"She does not love the duke."

"Bah! not love a prince of the blood."

"But if Monseigneur the Duc d'Anjou suspects my mistress of loving M. du
Bouchage, or M. de Joyeuse, how did he come to think of carrying her off
from him she loved?"

"My good man," said Aurilly, "you have trivial ideas, and I fear we
shall never understand each other; I have preferred kindness to
violence, but if you force me to change my plans, well! I will change
them."

"What will you do?"

"I told you I had full powers from the duke to kill you and carry off
the lady."

"And you believe you could do it with impunity?"

"I believe all my master tells me to believe. Come, will you persuade
your mistress to come to France?"

"I will try, but I can answer for nothing."

"And when shall I have the answer?"

"I will go up at once and see what I can do."

"Well, go up; I will wait. But one last word; you know that your fortune
and life hang on your answer."

"I know it."

"That will do; I will go and get the horses ready."

"Do not be in too great a hurry."

"Bah! I am sure of the answer; no one is cruel to a prince."

"I fancied that happened sometimes."

"Yes, but very rarely."

While Remy went up, Aurilly proceeded to the stables without feeling any
doubt as to the result.

"Well!" said Diana, on seeing Remy.

"Well, madame, the duke has seen you."

"And--"

"And he says he loves you."

"Loves me! but you are mad, Remy."

"No; I tell you that he--that man--that wretch, Aurilly, told me so."

"But, then, he recognized me?"

"If he had, do you think that Aurilly would have dared to present
himself and talk to you of love in the prince's name? No, he did not
recognize you."

"Yes, you must be right, Remy. So many things have passed during six
years through that infernal brain, that he has forgotten me. Let us
follow this man."

"But this man will recognize you."

"Why should his memory be better than his master's?"

"Oh! it is his business to remember, while it is the duke's to forget.
How could he live if he did not forget? But Aurilly will not have
forgotten; he will recognize you, and will denounce you as an avenging
shade."

"Remy, I thought I told you I had a mask, and that you told me you had a
knife."

"It is true, madame; and I begin to think that God is assisting us to
punish the wicked." Then, calling Aurilly from the top of the staircase,
"Monsieur," said he.

"Well!" replied Aurilly.

"My mistress thanks M. du Bouchage for having provided thus for her
safety, and accepts with gratitude your obliging offer."

"It is well," said Aurilly, "the horses are ready."

"Come, madame, come," said Remy, offering his arm to Diana.

Aurilly waited at the bottom of the staircase, lantern in hand, all
anxiety to see the lady.

"Diable!" murmured he, "she has a mask. But between this and
Chateau-Thierry the silk cords will be worn out or cut."

CHAPTER LXXVI.

THE JOURNEY.

They set off. Aurilly affected the most perfect equality with Remy, and
showed to Diana the greatest respect. But this respect was very
interested. Indeed, to hold the stirrup of a woman when she mounts or
dismounts, to watch each of her movements with solicitude, to let slip
no occasion of picking up her glove, is the role either of a lover, a
servant, or a spy. In touching Diana's glove Aurilly saw her hand, in
clasping her cloak he peeped under her mask, and always did his utmost
to see that face which the duke had not been able to recognize, but
which he doubted not he should be able to. But Aurilly had to deal with
one as skillful as himself; Remy claimed to perform his ordinary
services to Diana, and seemed jealous of Aurilly, while Diana herself,
without appearing to have any suspicions, begged Aurilly not to
interfere with the services which her old attendant was accustomed to
render to her. Aurilly was then reduced to hoping for rain or sun to
make her remove her mask; but neither rain nor sun had any effect, and
whenever they stopped Diana took her meals in her own room. Aurilly
tried to look through the keyholes, but Diana always sat with her back
to the door. He tried to peep through the windows, but there were always
thick curtains drawn, or if none were there, cloaks were hung up to
supply their place. Neither questions, nor attempts at corruption,
succeeded with Remy, who always declared that his mistress's will was
his.

"But these precautions are, then, taken only on my account?" said
Aurilly.

"No, for everybody."

"But M. d'Anjou saw her; she was not hidden then."

"Pure chance; but it is just because he did see her that she is more
careful than ever."

Days passed on, and they were nearing their destination, but Aurilly's
curiosity had not been gratified. Already Picardy appeared to the eyes
of the travelers.

Aurilly began to lose patience, and the bad passions of his nature to
gain the ascendant. He began to suspect some secret under all this
mystery. One day he remained a little behind with Remy, and renewed his
attempts at seduction, which Remy repulsed as usual.

"But," said Aurilly, "some day or other I must see your mistress."

"Doubtless," said Remy; "but that will be when she likes, and not when
you like."

"But if I employ force."

"Try," said Remy, while a lightning glance, which he could not repress,
shot from his eyes.

Aurilly tried to laugh. "What a fool I am!" said he; "what does it
matter to me who she is? She is the same person whom the duke saw."

"Certainly."

"And whom he told me to bring to Chateau-Thierry."

"Yes."

"Well! that is all that is necessary. It is not I who am in love with
her, it is monseigneur; and provided that you do not seek to escape or
fly--"

"Do we appear to wish to do so?"

"No."

"And she so little desires to do so, that were you not here we should
continue our way to Chateau-Thierry; if the duke wishes to see us, we
wish also to see him."

"That is capital," said Aurilly. "Would your mistress like to rest here
a little while?" continued he, pointing to a hotel on the road.

"You know," said Remy, "that my mistress never stops but in towns."

"Well, I, who have made no such vow, will stop here a moment; ride on,
and I will follow."

Remy rejoined Diana.

"What was he saying?" asked she.

"He expressed his constant desire--"

"To see me?"

"Yes."

Diana smiled.

"He is furious," continued Remy.

"He shall not see me; of that I am determined."

"But once we are at Chateau-Thierry, must he not see your face?"

"What matter, if the discovery come too late? Besides, the duke did not
recognize me."

"No, but his follower will. All these mysteries which have so annoyed
Aurilly for eight days had not existed for the prince; they had not
excited his curiosity or awakened his souvenirs, while for a week
Aurilly has been seeking, imagining, suspecting. Your face will strike
on a memory fully awakened, and he will know you at once."

At this moment they were interrupted by Aurilly, who had taken a
cross-road and come suddenly upon them, in the hope of surprising some
words of their conversation. The sudden silence which followed his
arrival proved to him that he was in the way, and he therefore rode
behind them.

He instinctively feared something, as Remy had said, but his floating
conjectures never for an instant approached the truth. From this moment
his plans were fixed, and in order to execute them the better he changed
his conduct, and showed himself the most accommodating and joyous
companion possible during the rest of the day.

Remy remarked this change not without anxiety.

The next day they started early, and at noon were forced to stop to rest
the horses. At two o'clock they set off again, and went on without
stopping until four. A great forest, that of La Fere, was visible in the
distance; it had the somber and mysterious aspect of our northern
forests, so imposing: to southern natures, to whom, beyond all things,
heat and sunshine are necessary; but it was nothing to Remy and Diana,
who were accustomed to the thick woods of Anjou and Sologne. It might
have been about six o'clock in the evening when they entered the forest,
and after half an hour's journey the sun began to go down. A high wind
whirled about the leaves and carried them toward a lake, along the shore
of which the travelers were journeying. Diana rode in the middle,
Aurilly on the right, and Remy on the left. No other human being was
visible under the somber arches of the trees.

From the long extent of the road, one might have thought it one of those
enchanted forests, under whose shade nothing can live, had it not been
for the hoarse howling of the wolves waking up at the approach of night.
All at once Diana felt that her saddle, which had been put on by
Aurilly, was slipping. She called Remy, who jumped down, and began to
tighten the girths. At this moment Aurilly approached Diana, and while
she was occupied, cut the strings of silk which fastened her mask.
Before she had divined the movement, or had time to put up her hand,
Aurilly seized the mask and looked full at her. The eyes of these two
people met with a look so terrible, that no one could have said which