MONSIEUR MAURICE

By

AMELIA B. EDWARDS

1873

1

The events I am about to relate took place more than fifty years ago. I ama white-haired old woman now, and I was then a little girl scarce ten yearsof age; but those times, and the places and people associated with them, seem, in truth, to lie nearer my memory than the times and people ofto-day. Trivial incidents which, if they had happened yesterday, would beforgotten, come back upon me sometimes with all the vivid detail of aphotograph; and words unheeded many a year ago start out, like thehandwriting on the wall, in sudden characters of fire. 

But this is no new experience. As age creeps on, we all have the same taleto tell. The days of our youth are those we remember best and most fondly, and even the sorrows of that bygone time become pleasures in theretrospect. Of my own solitary childhood I retain the keenest recollection, as the following pages will show. 

My father's name was Bernhard--Johann Ludwig Bernhard; and he was a nativeof Coblentz on the Rhine. Having grown grey in the Prussian service, foughthis way slowly and laboriously from the ranks upward, been seven timeswounded and twice promoted on the field, he was made colonel of hisregiment in 1814, when the Allies entered Paris. In 1819, being no longerfit for active service, he retired on a pension, and was appointed King'ssteward of the Château of Augustenburg at Brühl--a sort of militarycuratorship to which few duties and certain contingent emoluments wereattached. Of these last, a suite of rooms in the Château, a couple of acresof private garden, and the revenue accruing from a small local impost, formed the most important part. It was towards the latter half of this year(1819) that, having now for the first time in his life a settled home inwhich to receive me, my father fetched me from Nuremberg where I was livingwith my aunt, Martha Baur, and took me to reside with him at Brühl. 

Now my aunt, Martha Baur, was an exemplary person in her way; a rigidLutheran, a strict disciplinarian, and the widow of a wealthy wool-stapler. She lived in a gloomy old house near the Frauen-Kirche, where she receivedno society, and led a life as varied and lively on the whole as that of aTrappist. Every Wednesday afternoon we paid a visit to the grave of her"blessed man" in the Protestant cemetery outside the walls, and on Sundayswe went three times to church. These were the only breaks in the longmonotony of our daily life. On market-days we never went out of doors atall; and when the great annual fair-time came round, we drew down all thefront blinds and inhabited the rooms at the back. 

As for the pleasures of childhood, I cannot say that I knew many of them inthose old Nuremberg days. Still I was not unhappy, nor even very dull. Itmay be that, knowing nothing pleasanter, I was not even conscious of thedreariness of the atmosphere I breathed. There was, at all events, a bigold-fashioned garden full of vegetables and cottage-flowers, at the backof the house, in which I almost lived in Spring and Summer-time, and fromwhich I managed to extract a great deal of enjoyment; while for companionsand playmates I had old Karl, my aunt's gardener, a pigeon-house full ofpigeons, three staid elderly cats, and a tortoise. In the way of educationI fared scantily enough, learning just as little as it pleased my aunt toteach me, and having that little presented to me under its driest and mostunattractive aspect. 

Such was my life till I went away with my father in the Autumn of 1819. Iwas then between nine and ten years of age--having lost my mother inearliest infancy, and lived with aunt Martha Baur ever since I couldremember. 

The change from Nuremberg to Brühl was for me like the transition fromPurgatory to Paradise. I enjoyed for the first time all the delights ofliberty. I had no lessons to learn; no stern aunt to obey; but, which wasinfinitely pleasanter, a kind-hearted Rhenish Mädchen, with a silver arrowin her hair, to wait upon me; and an indulgent father whose only orderswere that I should be allowed to have my own way in everything. 

And my way was to revel in the air and the sunshine; to roam about the parkand pleasure-grounds; to watch the soldiers at drill, and hear the bandplay every day, and wander at will about the deserted state-apartments ofthe great empty Château. 

Looking back upon it from this distance of time, I should pronounce theElectoral Residenz at Brühl to be a miracle of bad taste; but not Aladdin'spalace if planted amid the gardens of Armida could then have seemedlovelier in my eyes. The building, a heavy many-windowed pile in the worststyle of the worst Renaissance period, stood, and still stands, in a fat, flat country about ten miles from Cologne, to which city it bears much thesame relation that Hampton Court bears to London, or Versailles to Paris. Stucco and whitewash had been lavished upon it inside and out, and pallidscagliola did duty everywhere for marble. A grand staircase supported byagonised colossi, grinning and writhing in vain efforts to look as if theydidn't mind the weight, led from the great hall to the state apartments;and in these rooms the bad taste of the building may be said to haveculminated. Here were mirrors framed in meaningless arabesques, cornicespainted to represent bas-reliefs, consoles and pilasters of mock marble, and long generations of Electors in the tawdriest style of portraiture, allat full length, all in their robes of office, and all too evidently by oneand the same hand. To me, however, they were all majestic and beautiful. Ibelieved in themselves, their wigs, their armour, their ermine, theirhigh-heeled shoes and their stereotyped smirk, from the earliest to thelatest. 

But the gardens and grounds were my chief delight, as indeed they were themain attraction of the place, making it the focus of a holiday resort forthe townsfolk of Cologne and Bonn, and a point of interest for travellers. First came a great gravelled terrace upon which the ground-floor windowsopened--a terrace where the sun shone more fiercely than elsewhere, andorange-trees in tubs bore golden fruit, and great green, yellow, andstriped pumpkins, alternating with beds of brilliant white and scarletgeraniums, lay lazily sprawling in the sunshine as if they enjoyed it. Beyond this terrace came vast flats of rich green sward laid out in formalwalks, flower-beds and fountains; and beyond these again stretched some twoor three miles of finely wooded park, pierced by long avenues that radiatedfrom a common centre and framed in exquisite little far-off views ofFalkenlust and the blue hills of the Vorgebirge. 

We were lodged at the back, where the private gardens and offices abuttedon the village. Our own rooms looked upon our own garden, and upon thechurch and Franciscan convent beyond. In the warm dusk, when all was still, and my father used to sit smoking his meerschaum by the open window, wecould hear the low pealing of the chapel-organ, and the monks chantingtheir evening litanies. 

A happy time--a pleasant, peaceful place! Ah me! how long ago!

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A whole delightful Summer and Autumn went by thus, and my new home seemedmore charming with every change of season. First came the gathering of thegolden harvest; then the joyous vintage-time, when the wine-press creakedall day in every open cellar along the village street, and long files ofcountry carts came down from the hills in the dusk evenings, laden withbaskets and barrels full of white and purple grapes. And then the longavenues and all the woods of Brühl put on their Autumn robes of crimson, and flame-colour, and golden brown; and the berries reddened in the hedges;and the Autumn burned itself away like a gorgeous sunset; and November camein grey and cold, like the night-time of the year. 

I was so happy, however, that I enjoyed even the dull November. I loved thebare avenues carpeted with dead and rustling leaves--the solitarygardens--the long, silent afternoons and evenings when the big logscrackled on the hearth, and my father smoked his pipe in the chimneycorner. We had no such wood-fires at Aunt Martha Baur's in those dreary oldNuremberg days, now almost forgotten; but then, to be sure, Aunt MarthaBaur, who was a sparing woman and looked after every groschen, had to payfor her own logs, whereas ours were cut from the Crown Woods, and cost nota pfennig. 

It was, as well as I can remember, just about this time, when the days werealmost at their briefest, that my father received an official communicationfrom Berlin desiring him to make ready a couple of rooms for the immediatereception of a state-prisoner, for whose safe-keeping he would be heldresponsible till further notice. The letter--(I have it in my desknow)--was folded square, sealed with five seals, and signed in the King'sname by the Minister of War; and it was brought, as I well remember, by amounted orderly from Cologne. 

So a couple of empty rooms were chosen on the second story, just over oneof the State apartments at the end of the east wing; and my father, who wasby no means well pleased with his office, set to work to ransack theChâteau for furniture. 

"Since it is the King's pleasure to make a gaoler of me, " said he, "I'lltry to give my poor devil of a prisoner all the comforts I can. Come withme, my little Gretchen, and let's see what chairs and tables we can find upin the garrets. "

Now I had been longing to explore the top rooms ever since I came to liveat Brühl--those top rooms under the roof, of which the shutters were alwaysclosed, and the doors always locked, and where not even the housemaids wereadmitted oftener than twice a year. So at this welcome invitation I sprangup, joyfully enough, and ran before my father all the way. But when heunlocked the first door, and all beyond was dark, and the air that met uson the threshold had a faint and dead odour, like the atmosphere of a tomb, I shrank back trembling, and dared not venture in. Nor did my couragealtogether come back when the shutters were thrown open, and the wintrysunlight streamed in upon dusty floors, and cobwebbed ceilings, and pilesof mysterious objects covered in a ghostly way with large white sheets, looking like heaps of slain upon a funeral pyre. 

The slain, however, turned out to be the very things of which we were insearch; old-fashioned furniture in all kinds of incongruous styles, and ofall epochs--Louis Quatorze cabinets in cracked tortoise-shell and blackenedbuhl--antique carved chairs emblazoned elaborately with coats of arms, asold as the time of Albert Dürer--slender-legged tables in batteredmarqueterie--time-pieces in lack-lustre ormolu, still pointing to the hourat which they had stopped, who could tell how many years ago? bundles ofmoth-eaten tapestries and faded silken hangings--exquisite oval mirrorsframed in chipped wreaths of delicate Dresden china--mouldering oldportraits of dead-and-gone court beauties in powder and patches, warriorsin wigs, and prelates in point-lace--whole suites of furniture in oldstamped leather and worm-eaten Utrecht velvet; broken toilette services inpink and blue Sèvres; screens, wardrobes, cornices--in short, all kinds ofluxurious lumber going fast to dust, like those who once upon a timeenjoyed and owned it. 

And now, going from room to room, we chose a chair here, a table there, andso on, till we had enough to furnish a bedroom and sitting-room. 

"He must have a writing-table, " said my father, thoughtfully, "and abook-case. "

Saying which, he stopped in front of a ricketty-looking gilded cabinet withempty red-velvet shelves, and tapped it with his cane. 

"But supposing he has no books!" suggested I, with the precocious wisdom ofnine years of age. 

"Then we must beg some, or borrow some, my little Mädchen, " replied myfather, gravely; "for books are the main solace of the captive, and he whohath them not lies in a twofold prison. "

"He shall have my picture-book of Hartz legends!" said I, in a suddenimpulse of compassion. Whereupon my father took me up in his arms, kissedme on both cheeks, and bade me choose some knicknacks for the prisoner'ssitting-room. 

"For though we have gotten together all the necessaries for comfort, wehave taken nothing for adornment, " said he, "and 'twere pity the prisonwere duller than it need be. Choose thou a pretty face or two from amongthese old pictures, my little Gretchen, and an ornament for hismantelshelf. Young as thou art, thou hast the woman's wit in thee. "

So I picked out a couple of Sèvres candlesticks; a painted Chinese screen, all pagodas and parrots; two portraits of patched and powdered beauties inthe Watteau style; and a queer old clock surmounted by a gilt Cupid in achariot drawn by doves. If these failed to make him happy, thought I, hemust indeed be hard to please. 

That afternoon, the things having been well dusted, and the roomsthoroughly cleaned, we set to work to arrange the furniture, and so quicklywas this done that before we sat down to supper the place was ready foroccupation, even to the logs upon the hearth and the oil-lamp upon thetable. 

All night my dreams were of the prisoner. I was seeking him in the gloom ofthe upper rooms, or amid the dusky mazes of the leaflessplantations--always seeing him afar off, never overtaking him, and tryingin vain to catch a glimpse of his features. But his face was always turnedfrom me. 

My first words on waking, were to ask if he had yet come. All day long Iwas waiting, and watching, and listening for him, starting up at everysound, and continually running to the window. Would he be young andhandsome? Or would he be old, and white-haired, and world-forgotten, likesome of those Bastille prisoners I had heard my father speak of? Would hischains rattle when he walked about? I asked myself these questions, andanswered them as my childish imagination prompted, a hundred times a day;and still he came not. 

So another twenty-four hours went by, and my impatience was almostbeginning to wear itself out, when at last, about five o'clock in theafternoon of the third day, it being already quite dark, there came asudden clanging of the gates, followed by a rattle of wheels in thecourtyard, and a hurrying to and fro of feet upon the stairs. 

Then, listening with a beating heart, but seeing nothing, I knew that hewas come. 

I had to sleep that night with my curiosity ungratified; for my father hadhurried away at the first sounds from without, nor came back till longafter I had been carried off to bed by my Rhenish handmaiden. 

3

He was neither old nor white-haired. He was, as well as I, in my childishway could judge, about thirty-five years of age, pale, slight, dark-eyed, delicate-looking. His chains did not rattle as he walked, for the simplereason that, being a prisoner on parole, he suffered no kind of restraint, but was as free as myself of the Château and grounds. He wore his hairlong, tied behind with a narrow black ribbon, and very slightly powdered;and he dressed always in deep mourning--black, all black, from head tofoot, even to his shoe-buckles. He was a Frenchman, and he went by the nameof Monsieur Maurice. 

I cannot tell how I knew that this was only his Christian name; but so itwas, and I knew him by no other, neither did my father. I have, indeed, evidence among our private papers to show that neither by those inauthority at Berlin, nor by the prisoner himself, was he at any timeinformed either of the family name of Monsieur Maurice, or of the nature ofthe offence, whether military or political, for which that gentleman wasconsigned to his keeping at Brühl. 

"Of one thing at least I am certain, " said my father, holding out his pipefor me to fill it. "He is a soldier. "

It was just after dinner, the second day following our prisoner's arrival, and I was sitting on my father's knee before the fire, as was our pleasantcustom of an afternoon. 

"I see it in his eye, " my father went on to say. "I see it in his walk. Isee it in the way he arranges his papers on the table. Everything in order. Everything put away into the smallest possible compass. All this bespeakeththe camp. "

"I don't believe he is a soldier, for all that, " said I, thoughtfully. "Heis too gentle. "

"The bravest soldiers, my little Gretchen, are ofttimes the gentlest, "replied my father. "The great French hero, Bayard, and the great Englishhero, Sir Philip Sidney, about whom thou wert reading 'tother day, wereboth as tender and gentle as women. "

"But he neither smokes, nor swears, nor talks loud, " said I, persisting inmy opinion. 

My father smiled, and pinched my ear. 

"Nay, little one, " said he, "Monsieur Maurice is not like thy father--arough German Dragoon risen from the ranks. He is a gentleman, and aFrenchman; and he hath all the polish of what the Frenchman calls the_vieille école_. And there again he puzzles me with his court-mannersand his powdered hair! He's no Bonapartist, I'll be sworn--yet if he be o'the King's side, what doth he here, with the usurper at Saint Helena, andLouis the Eighteenth come to his own again?"

"But he _is_ a Bonapartist, father, " said I, "for he carries theEmperor's portrait on his snuff-box. "

My father laid down his pipe, and drew a long breath expressive ofastonishment. 

"He showed thee his snuff-box!" exclaimed he. 

"Ay--and told me it was the Emperor's own gift. "

"Thunder and Mars! And when was this, my little Gretchen?"

"Yesterday morning, on the terrace. And he asked my name; and told me Ishould go up some day to his room and see his sketches; and he kissed mewhen he said good-bye; and--and I like Monsieur Maurice very much, father, and I'm sure it's very wicked of the King to keep him here in prison!"

My father looked at me, shook his head, and twirled his long greymoustache. 

"Bonapartist or Legitimist, again I say what doth he here?" muttered hepresently, more to himself than to me. "If Legitimist, why not with hisKing? If Bonapartist--then he is his King's prisoner; not ours. It passethmy comprehension how we should hold him at Brühl. "

"Let him run away, father dear, and don't run after him!" whispered I, putting my arms coaxingly about his neck. 

"But 'tis some cursed mess of politics at bottom, depend on't!" continuedmy father, still talking to himself. "Ah, you don't know what politics are, my little Gretchen!--so much the better for you!"

"I do know what politics are, " replied I, with great dignity. "They are the_chef-d'oeuvre_ of Satan. I heard you say so the other day. "

My father burst into a Titanic roar of laughter. 

"Said I so?" shouted he. "Thunder and Mars! I did not remember that I hadever said anything half so epigrammatic!"

Now from this it will be seen that the prisoner and I were alreadyacquainted. We had, indeed, taken to each other from the first, and ourmutual liking ripened so rapidly that before a week was gone by we hadbecome the fastest friends in the world. 

Our first meeting, as I have already said, took place upon the terrace. Oursecond, which befell on the afternoon of the same day when my father and Ihad held the conversation just recorded, happened on the stairs. MonsieurMaurice was coming up with his hat on; I was running down. He stopped, andheld out both his hands. 

"_Bonjour, petite_, " he said, smiling. "Whither away so fast?"

The hoar frost was clinging to his coat, where he had brushed against thetrees in his walk, and he looked pale and tired. 

"I am going home, " I replied. 

"Home? Did you not tell me you lived in the Château?"

"So I do, Monsieur; but at the other side, up the other staircase. This isthe side of the state-apartments. "

Then, seeing in his face a look half of surprise, half of curiosity, Iadded:--

"I often go there in the afternoon, when it is too cold, or too late forout-of-doors. They are such beautiful rooms, and full of such beautifulpictures! Would you like to see them?"

He smiled, and shook his head. 

"Thanks, petite, " he said, "I am too cold now, and too tired; but you shallshow them to me some other day. Meanwhile, suppose you come up and pay methat promised visit?"

I assented joyfully, and slipping my hand into his with the readyconfidence of childhood, turned back at once and went with him to his roomson the second floor. 

Here, finding the fire in the salon nearly out, we went down upon our kneesand blew the embers with our breath, and laughed so merrily over our workthat by the time the new logs had caught, I was as much at home as if I hadknown Monsieur Maurice all my life. 

"_Tiens_!" he said, taking me presently upon his knee and brushing thespecks of white ash from my clothes and hair, "what a little Cinderella Ihave made of my guest! This must not happen again, Gretchen. Did you nottell me yesterday that your name was Gretchen?"

"Yes, but Gretchen, you know, is not my real name, " said I, "my real nameis Marguerite. Gretchen is only my pet name. "

"Then you will always be Gretchen for me, " said Monsieur Maurice, with thesweetest smile in the world. 

There were books upon the table; there was a thing like a telescope on abrass stand in the window; there was a guitar lying on the couch. Thefire, too, was burning brightly now, and the room altogether wore acheerful air of habitation. 

"It looks more like a lady's boudoir than a prison, " said Monsieur Maurice, reading my thoughts. "I wonder whose rooms they were before I came here!"

"They were nobody's rooms, " said I. "They were quite empty. "

And then I told him where we had found the furniture, and how theornamental part thereof had been of my choosing. 

"I don't know who the ladies are, " I said, referring to the portraits. "Ionly chose them for their pretty faces. "

"Their lovers probably did the same, petite, a hundred years ago, " repliedMonsieur Maurice. "And the clock--did you choose that also?"

"Yes; but the clock doesn't go. "

"So much the better. I would that time might stand still also--till I amfree! till I am free!"

The tears rushed to my eyes. It was the tone more than the words thattouched my heart. He stooped and kissed me on the forehead. 

"Come to the window, little one, " said he, "and I will show you somethingvery beautiful. Do you know what this is?"

"A telescope!"

"No; a solar microscope. Now look down into this tube, and tell me what yousee. A piece of Persian carpet? No--a butterfly's wing magnified hundredsand hundreds of times. And this which looks like an aigrette of jewels?Will you believe that it is just the tiny plume which waves on the head ofevery little gnat that buzzes round you on a Summer's evening?"

I uttered exclamation after exclamation of delight. Every fresh objectseemed more wonderful and beautiful than the last, and I felt as if I couldgo on looking down that magic tube for ever. Meanwhile Monsieur Maurice, whose good-nature was at least as inexhaustible as my curiosity, went onchanging the slides till we had gone through a whole boxfull. 

By this time it was getting rapidly dusk, and I could see no longer. 

"You will show me some more another day?" said I, giving up reluctantly. 

"That I will, petite, I have at least a dozen more boxes full of slides. "

"And--and you said I should see your sketches, Monsieur Maurice. "

"All in good time, little Gretchen, " he said, smiling. "All in good time. See--those are the sketches, in yonder folio; that mahogany case under thecouch contains a collection of gems in glass and paste; those red books inthe bookcase are full of pictures. You shall see them all by degrees; butonly by degrees. For if I did not keep something back to tempt my littleguest, she would not care to visit the solitary prisoner. "

I felt myself colour crimson. 

"But--but indeed I would care to come, Monsieur Maurice, if you had nothingat all to show me, " I said, half hurt, half angry. 

He gave me a strange look that I could not understand, and stroked my haircaressingly. 

"Come often, then, little one, " he said. "Come very often; and when we aretired of pictures and microscopes, we will sit upon the floor, and tellsad stories of the deaths of kings. "

Then, seeing my look puzzled, he laughed and added:--

"'Tis a great English poet says that, Gretchen, in one of his plays. "

Here a shrill trumpet-call in the court-yard, followed by the prolongedroll of many drums, warned me that evening parade was called, and that assoon as it was over my father would be home and looking for me. So Istarted up, and put out my hand to say good-bye. 

Monsieur Maurice took it between both his own. 

"I don't like parting from you so soon, little Mädchen, " he said. "Will youcome again to-morrow?"

"Every day, if you like!" I replied eagerly. 

"Then every day it shall be; and--let me see--you shall improve my badGerman, and I will teach you French. "

I could have clapped my hands for joy. I was longing to learn French, and Iknew how much it would also please my father; so I thanked Monsieur Mauriceagain and again, and ran home with a light heart to tell of all the wondersI had seen. 

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From this time forth, I saw him always once, and sometimes twice a day--inthe afternoons, when he regularly gave me the promised French lesson; andoccasionally in the mornings, provided the weather was neither too cold nortoo damp for him to join me in the grounds. For Monsieur Maurice was notstrong. He could not with impunity face snow, and rain, and our keenRhenish north-east winds; and it was only when the wintry sun shone out atnoon and the air came tempered from the south, that he dared venture fromhis own fire-side. When, however, there shone a sunny day, with whatdelight I used to summon him for a walk, take him to my favourite points ofview, and show him the woodland nooks that had been my chosen haunts insummer! Then, too, the unwonted colour would come back to his pale cheek, and the smile to his lips, and while the ramble and the sunshine lasted hewould be all jest and gaiety, pelting me with dead leaves, chasing me inand out of the plantations, and telling me strange stories, half pathetic, half grotesque, of Dryads, and Fauns, and Satyrs--of Bacchus, and Pan, andPolyphemus--of nymphs who became trees, and shepherds who were transformedto fountains, and all kinds of beautiful wild myths of antique Greece--farmore beautiful and far more wild than all the tales of gnomes and witchesin my book of Hartz legends. 

At other times, when the weather was cold or rainy, he would take down his"Musée Napoléon, " a noble work in eight or ten volumes, and show meengravings after pictures by great masters in the Louvre, explaining themto me as we went along, painting in words the glow and glory of the absentcolour, and steeping my childish imagination in golden dreams of Raphaeland Titian, and Paulo Veronese. 

And sometimes, too, as the dusk came on and the firelight brightened in thegathering gloom, he would take up his guitar, and to the accompaniment of afew slight chords sing me a quaint old French chanson of the feudal times;or an Arab chant picked up in the tent or the Nile boat; or a Spanishballad, half love-song, half litany, learned from the lips of a muleteer onthe Pyrenean border. 

For Monsieur Maurice, whatever his present adversities, had travelled farand wide at some foregone period of his life--in Syria, and Persia; innorthernmost Tartary and the Siberian steppes; in Egypt and the Nubiandesert, and among the perilous wilds of central Arabia. He spoke and wrotewith facility some ten or twelve languages. He drew admirably, and had aprofound knowledge of the Italian schools of art; and his memory was a richstorehouse of adventure and anecdote, legend and song. 

I am an old woman now, and Monsieur Maurice must have passed away many ayear ago upon his last long journey; but even at this distance of time, myeyes are dimmed with tears when I remember how he used to unlock thatstorehouse for my pleasure, and ransack his memory for stories either ofhis own personal perils by flood and field, or of the hairbreadth 'scapesof earlier travellers. For it was his amusement to amuse me; his happinessto make me happy. And I in return loved him with all my childish heart. Nay, with something deeper and more romantic than a childish love--sayrather with that kind of passionate hero-worship which is an attribute moreof youth than of childhood, and, like the quality of mercy, blesseth himthat gives even more than him that takes. 

"What dreadful places you have travelled in, Monsieur Maurice!" I exclaimedone day. "What dangers you have seen!"

He had been showing me a little sketchbook full of Eastern jottings, andhad just explained how a certain boat therein depicted had upset with himon a part of the Upper Nile so swarming with alligators that he had toswim for his life, and even so, barely scrambled up the slimy bank intime. 

"He who travels far courts many kinds of death, " replied Monsieur Maurice;"but he escapes that which is worst--death from ennui. "

"Suppose they had dragged you back, when you were half way up the bank!"said I, shuddering. 

And as I spoke, I felt myself turn pale; for I could see the brown monsterscrowding to shore, and the red glitter of their cruel eyes and the hotbreath steaming from their open jaws. 

"Then they would have eaten me up as easily as you might swallow anoyster, " laughed Monsieur Maurice. "Nay, my child, why that serious face? Ishould have escaped a world of trouble, and been missed by no one--exceptpoor Ali. "

"Who was Ali?" I asked quickly. 

"Ali was my Nubian servant--my only friend, then; as you, little Gretchen, are my only friend, now, " replied Monsieur Maurice, sadly. "Aye, my onlylittle friend in the wide world--and I think a true one. "

I did not know what to say; but I nestled closer to his side; and pressedmy cheek up fondly against his shoulder. 

"Tell me more about him, Monsieur Maurice, " I whispered. "I am so glad heloved you dearly. "

"He loved me very dearly, " said Monsieur Maurice "so dearly that he gavehis life for me. "

"But is Ali dead?"

"Ay--Ali is dead. Nay, his story is brief enough, petite. I bought him inthe slave market at Cairo--a poor, sickly, soulless lad, half stupid fromill-treatment. I gave him good food, good clothes, and liberty. I taughthim to read. I made him my own servant; and his soul and his strength cameback to him as if by a miracle. He became stalwart and intelligent, and sofaithful that he was ten times more my slave than if I had held him to hisbondage. I took him with me through all my Eastern pilgrimage. He was mybody-guard; my cook; my dragoman; everything. He slept on a mat at the footof my bed every night, like a dog. So he lived with me for nearly fouryears--till I lost him. "

He paused. 

I did not dare to ask, "what more?" but waited breathlessly. 

"The rest is soon told, " he said presently; but in an altered voice. "Ithappened in Ceylon. Our way lay along a bridle-path overhanging a steepgorge on the one hand and skirting the jungle on the other. Do you knowwhat the jungle is, little Gretchen? Fancy an untrodden wilderness wherehuge trees, matted together by trailing creepers of gigantic size, shutout the sun and make a green roof of inextricable shade--where the verygrass grows taller than the tallest man--where apes chatter, and parrotsscream, and deadly reptiles swarm; and where nature has run wild sinceever the world began. Well, so we went--I on my horse; Ali at my bridle;two porters following with food and baggage; the precipice below; theforest above; the morning sun just risen over all. On a sudden, Ali heldhis breath and listened. His practised ear had caught a sound that minecould not detect. He seized my rein--forced my horse back upon hishaunches--drew his hunting knife, and ran forward to reconnoitre. The turnof the road hid him for a moment from my sight. The next instant, I hadsprung from the saddle, pistol in hand, and run after him to share thesport or the danger. My little Gretchen--he was gone. "

"Gone!" I echoed. 

Monsieur Maurice shook his head, and turned his face away. 

"I heard a crashing and crackling of the underwood, " he said; "a faint moandying on the sultry air. I saw a space of dusty road trampled over withprints of an enormous paw--a tiny trail of blood--a shred of silkenfringe--and nothing more. He was gone. "

"What was it?" I asked presently, in an awestruck whisper. 

Monsieur Maurice, instead of answering my question, opened the sketch-bookat a page full of little outlines of animals and birds, and laid his fingersilently on the figure of a sleeping tiger. 

I shuddered. 

"_Pauvre petite_!" he said, shutting up the book, "it is too terriblea story. I ought not to have told it to you. Try to forget it. "

"Ah, no!" I said. "I shall never forget it, Monsieur Maurice. Poor Ali!Have you still the piece of fringe you found lying in the road?"

He unlocked his desk and touched a secret spring; whereupon a small drawerflew out from a recess just under the lock. 

"Here it is, " he said, taking out a piece of folded paper. 

It contained the thing he had described--a scrap of fringe composed ofcrimson and yellow twist, about two inches in length. 

"And those other things?" I said, peering into the secret drawer with achild's inquisitiveness. "Have they a history, too?"

Monsieur Maurice hesitated--took them out--sighed--and said, somewhatreluctantly:--

"You may see them, little Gretchen, if you will. Yes; they, too, have theirhistory--but let it be. We have had enough sad stories for to-day. "

Those other things, as I had called them, were a withered rose in a littlecardboard box, and a miniature of a lady in a purple morocco case. 

5

It so happened that the Winter this year was unusually severe, not only atBrühl and the parts about Cologne, but throughout all the Rhine country. Heavy snows fell at Christmas and lay unmelted for weeks upon the ground. Long forgotten sleighs were dragged out from their hiding places and putupon the road, not only for the transport of goods, but for the conveyanceof passengers. The ponds in every direction and all the smaller streamswere fast frozen. Great masses of dirty ice, too, came floating down theRhine, and there were rumours of the great river being quite frozen oversomewhere up in Switzerland, many hundred miles nearer its source. 

For myself, I enjoyed it all--the bitter cold, the short days, the rapidexercise, the blazing fires within, and the glittering snow without. Imade snow-men and snow-castles to my heart's content. I learned to skatewith my father on the frozen ponds. I was never weary of admiring thewintry landscape--the wide plains sheeted with silver; the purplemountains peeping through brown vistas of bare forest; the nearer treesstanding out in featherlike tracery against the blue-green sky. To me itwas all beautiful; even more beautiful than in the radiant summertime. 

Not so, however, was it with Monsieur Maurice. Racked by a severe coughand unable to leave the house for weeks together, he suffered intensely allthe winter through. He suffered in body, and he suffered also in mind. Icould see that he was very sad, and that there were times when the burdenof life was almost more than he knew how to bear. He had brought with him, as I have shown, certain things wherewith to alleviate the weariness ofcaptivity--books, music, drawing materials, and the like; but I soondiscovered that the books were his only solace, and that he never took uppencil or guitar, unless for my amusement. 

He wrote a great deal, however, and so consumed many a weary hour of thetwenty-four. He used a thick yellowish paper cut quite square, and wrote avery small, neat, upright hand, as clear and legible as print. Every timeI found him at his desk and saw those closely covered pages multiplyingunder his hand, I used to wonder what he could have to write about, andfor whose eyes that elaborate manuscript was intended. 

"How cold you are, Monsieur Maurice!" I used to say. "You are as cold as mysnow-man in the court-yard! Won't you come out to-day for half-an-hour?"

And his hands, in truth, were always ice-like, even though the hearth washeaped with blazing logs. 

"Not to-day, petite, " he would reply. "It is too bleak for me--and besides, you see, I am writing. "

It was his invariable reply. He was always writing--or if not writing, reading; or brooding listlessly over the fire. And so he grew paler everyday. 

"But the writing can wait, Monsieur Maurice, " I urged one morning, "and youcan't always be reading the same old books over and over again!"

"Some books never grow old, little Gretchen, " he replied. "This, forinstance, is quite new; and yet it was written by one Horatius Flaccussomewhere about eighteen hundred years ago. "

"But the sun is really shining this morning, Monsieur Maurice!"

"_Comment_!" he said, smiling. "Do you think to persuade me thatyonder is the sun--the great, golden, glorious, bountiful sun? No, no, mychild! Where I come from, we have the only true sun, and believe in noother!"

"But you come from France, don't you, Monsieur Maurice?" I asked quickly. 

"From the South of France, petite--from the France of palms, andorange-groves, and olives; where the myrtle flowers at Christmas, and theroses bloom all the year round!"

"But that must be where Paradise was, Monsieur Maurice!" I exclaimed. 

"Ay; it was Paradise once--for me, " he said, with a sigh. 

Thus, after a moment's pause, he went on:--

"The house in which I was born stands on a low cliff above the sea. It isan old, old house, with all kinds of quaint little turrets, and gable ends, and picturesque nooks and corners about it--such as one sees in most FrenchChâteaux of that period; and it lies back somewhat, with a great ramblinggarden stretching out between it and the edge of the cliff. Three_berceaux_ of orange-trees lead straight away from the paved terraceon which the salon windows open, to another terrace overhanging the beachand the sea. The cliff is overgrown from top to bottom with shrubs and wildflowers, and a flight of steps cut in the living rock leads down to alittle cove and a strip of yellow sand a hundred feet below. Ah, petite, Ifancy I can see myself scrambling up and down those steps--a child youngerthan yourself; watching the sun go down into that purple sea; counting thesails in the offing at early morn; and building castles with that yellowsand, just as you build castles out yonder with the snow!"

I clasped my hands and listened breathlessly. 

"Oh, Monsieur Maurice, " I said, "I did not think there was such a beautifulplace in the world! It sounds like a fairy tale. "

He smiled, sighed, and--being seated at his desk with the pen in hishand--took up a blank sheet of paper, and began sketching the Château andthe cliff. 

"Tell me more about it, Monsieur Maurice, " I pleaded coaxingly. 

"What more can I tell you, little one? See--this window in the turret tothe left was my bed-room window, and here, just below, was my study, whereas a boy I prepared my lessons for my tutor. That large Gothic window underthe gable was the window of the library. "

"And is it all just like that still?" I asked. 

"I don't know, " he said dreamily. "I suppose so. "

He was now putting in the rocks, and the rough steps leading down to thebeach. 

"Had you any little brothers and sisters, Monsieur Maurice?" I asked next;for my interest and curiosity were unbounded. 

He shook his head. 

"None, " he said, "none whatever. I was an only child; and I am the last ofmy name. "

I longed to question him further, but did not dare to do so. 

"You will go back there some day, Monsieur Maurice, " I said hesitatingly, "when--when--"

"When I am free, little Gretchen? Ah! who can tell? Besides the old placeis no longer mine. They have taken it from me, and given it to a stranger. "

"Taken it from you, Monsieur Maurice!" I exclaimed indignantly. 

"Ay; but--who knows? We see strange changes. Where a king reigns to-day, anemperor, or a mob, may rule to-morrow. "

He spoke more to himself than to me, but I had some dim understanding, nevertheless, of what he meant. 

He had by this time drawn the cliff, and the strip of sand, and the wasteof sea beyond; and now he was blotting in some boats and figures--figuresof men wading through the surf and dragging the boats in shore; and otherfigures making for the steps. Last of all, close under the cliff, inadvance of all the rest, he drew a tiny man standing alone--a tiny manscarce an eighth of an inch in height, struck out with three or fourtouches of the pen, and yet so full of character that one knew at a glancehe was the leader of the others. I saw the outstretched arm in act ofcommand--I recognised the well-known cocked hat--the general outline of afigure already familiar to me in a hundred prints, and I exclaimed, almostinvoluntarily:--

"Bonaparte!"

Monsieur Maurice started; shot a quick, half apprehensive glance at me;crumpled the drawing up in his hand, and flung it into the fire. 

"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" I cried, "what have you done?"

"It was a mere scrawl, " he said impatiently. 

"No, no--it was beautiful. I would have given anything for it!"

Monsieur Maurice laughed, and patted me on the cheek. 

"Nonsense, petite, nonsense!" he said. "It was only fit for the fire. Iwill make you a better drawing, if you remind me of it, to-morrow. "

When I told this to my father--and I used to prattle to him a good dealabout Monsieur Maurice at supper, in those days--he tugged at hismoustache, and shook his head, and looked very grave indeed. 

"The South of France!" he muttered, "the South of France! _Sacré coeurd'une bombe_! Why, the usurper, when he came from Elba, landed on thatcoast somewhere near Cannes!"

"And went to Monsieur Maurice's house, father!" I cried, "and that is whythe King of France has taken Monsieur Maurice's house away from him, andgiven it to a stranger! I am sure that's it! I see it all now!"

But my father only shook his head again, and looked still more grave. 

"No, no, no, " he said, "neither all--nor half--nor a quarter! There's morebehind. I don't understand it--I don't understand it. Thunder and Mars! Whydon't we hand him over to the French Government? That's what puzzles me. "

6

The severity of the Winter had, I think, in some degree abated, and thesnowdrops were already above ground, when again a mounted orderly rode infrom Cologne, bringing another official letter for the Governor of Brühl. 

Now my father's duties as Governor of Brühl were very light--so light thathe had not found it necessary to set apart any special room, or bureau, for the transaction of such business as might be connected therewith. When, therefore, letters had to be written or accounts made up, he wrotethose letters and made up those accounts at a certain large writing-table, fitted with drawers, pigeon-holes, and a shelf for account-books, thatstood in a corner of our sitting-room. Here also, if any persons had to bereceived, he received them. To this day, whenever I go back in imaginationto those bygone times, I seem to see my father sitting at thatwriting-table nibbling the end of his pen, and one of the sergeants offguard perched on the edge of a chair close against the door, with his haton his knees, waiting for orders. 

There being, as I have said, no especial room set apart for businesspurposes, the orderly was shown straight to our own room, and theredelivered his despatch. It was about a quarter past one. We had dined, andmy father had just brought out his pipe. The door leading into our littledining-room was, indeed, standing wide open, and the dishes were stillupon the table. 

My father took the despatch, turned it over, broke the seals one by one(there were five of them, as before), and read it slowly through. As heread, a dark cloud seemed to settle on his brow. 

Then he looked up frowning--seemed about to speak--checked himself--andread the despatch over again. 

"From whose hands did you receive this?" he said abruptly. 

"From General Berndorf, Excellency, " stammered the orderly, carrying hishand to his cap. 

"Is his Excellency the Baron von Bulow at Cologne?"

"I have not heard so, Excellency. "

"Then this despatch came direct from Berlin, and has been forwarded fromCologne?"

"Yes, Excellency. "

"How did it come from Berlin? By mail, or by special messenger?"

"By special messenger, Excellency. "

Now General Berndorf was the officer in command of the garrison at Cologne, and the Baron von Bulow, as I well knew, was His Majesty's Minister of Warat Berlin. 

Having received these answers, my father stood silent, as if revolving somedifficult matter in his thoughts. Then, his mind being made up, he turnedagain to the orderly and said:--

"Dine--feed your horse--and come back in an hour for the answer. "

Thankful to be dismissed, the man saluted and vanished. My father had arapid, stern way of speaking to subordinates, that had in general theeffect of making them glad to get out of his presence as quickly aspossible. 

Then he read the despatch for the third time; turned to his writing-table;dropped into his chair; and prepared to write. 

But the task, apparently, was not easy. Watching him from the firesidecorner where I was sitting on a low stool with an open story-book upon mylap, I saw him begin and tear up three separate attempts. The fourth, however, seemed to be more successful. Once written, he read it over, copied it carefully, called to me for a light, sealed his letter, andaddressed it to "His Excellency the Baron von Bulow. "

This done, he enclosed it under cover to "General Berndorf, Cologne"; andhad just sealed the outer cover when the orderly came back. My father gaveit to him with scarcely a word, and two minutes after, we heard himclattering out of the courtyard at a hand-gallop. 

Then my father came back to his chair by the fireside, lit his pipe, andsat thinking silently. I looked up in his face, but felt, somehow, that Imust not speak to him; for the cloud was still there, and his thoughtswere far away. Presently his pipe went out; but he held it still, unconscious and absorbed. In all the months we had been living at Brühl Ihad never seen him look so troubled. 

So he sat, and so he looked for a long time--for perhaps the greater partof an hour--during which I could think of nothing but the despatch, andMonsieur Maurice, and the Minister of War; for that it all had to do withMonsieur Maurice I never doubted for an instant. 

By just such another despatch, sealed and sent in precisely the same way, and from the same person, his coming hither had been heralded. How, then, should not this one concern him? And in what way would he be affected byit? Seeing that dark look in my father's face, I knew not what to think orwhat to fear. 

At length, after what had seemed to me an interval of interminable silence, the time-piece in the corner struck half-past three--the hour at whichMonsieur Maurice was accustomed to give me the daily French lesson; so Igot up quietly and stole towards the door, knowing that I was expectedupstairs. 

"Where are you going, Gretchen?" said my father, sharply. 

It was the first time he had opened his lips since the orderly hadclattered out of the courtyard. 

"I am going up to Monsieur Maurice, " I replied. 

My father shook his head. 

"Not to-day, my child, " he said, "not to-day. I have business with MonsieurMaurice this afternoon. Stay here till I come back. "

And with this he got up, took his hat and went quickly out of the room. 

So I waited and waited--as it seemed to me for hours. The waning day-lightfaded and became dusk; the dusk thickened into dark; the fire burned redand dull; and still I crouched there in the chimney-corner. I had no heartto read, work, or fan the logs into a blaze. I just watched the clock, andwaited. When the room became so dark that I could see the hands no longer, I counted the strokes of the pendulum, and told the quarters off upon myfingers. 

When at length my father came back, it was past five o'clock, and dark asmidnight. 

"Quick, quick, little Gretchen, " he said, pulling off his hat and gloves, and unbuckling his sword. "A glass of kirsch, and more logs on the fire! Iam cold through and through, and wet into the bargain. "

"But--but, father, have you not been with Monsieur Maurice?" I said, anxiously. 

"Yes, of course; but that was an hour ago, and more. I have been over toKierberg since then, in the rain. "

He had left Monsieur Maurice an hour ago--a whole, wretched, dismal hour, during which I might have been so happy!

"You told me to stay here till you came back, " I said, scarce able to keepdown the tears that started to my eyes. 

"Well, my little Mädchen?"

"And--and I might have gone up to Monsieur Maurice, after all?"

My father looked at me gravely--poured out a second glass of kirsch--drewhis chair to the front of the fire, and said:--

"I don't know about that, Gretchen. "

I had felt all along that there was something wrong, and now I was certainof it. 

"What do you mean, father?" I said, my heart beating so that I couldscarcely speak. "What is the matter?"

"May the devil make broth of my bones, if I know!" said my father, tuggingsavagely at his moustache. 

"But there is something!"

He nodded, grimly. 

"Monsieur Maurice, it seems, is not to have so much liberty, " he said, after a moment. "He is not to walk in the grounds oftener than twice aweek; and then only with a soldier at his heels. And he is not to go beyondhalf a mile from the Château in any direction. And he is to hold nocommunication whatever with any person, or persons, either in-doors orout-of-doors, except such as are in direct charge of his rooms or hisperson. And--and heaven knows what other confounded regulations besides! Iwish the Baron von Bulow had been in Spitzbergen before he put it into theKing's head to send him here at all!"

"But--but he is not to be locked up?" I faltered, almost in a whisper. 

"Well, no--not exactly that; but I am to post a sentry in the corridor, outside his door. "

"Then the King is afraid that Monsieur Maurice will run away!"

"I don't know--I suppose so, " groaned my father. 

I sat silent for a moment, and then burst into a flood of tears. 

"Poor Monsieur Maurice!" I cried. "He has coughed so all the Winter; and hewas longing for the Spring! We were to have gathered primroses in the woodswhen the warm days came back again--and--and--and I suppose the Kingdoesn't mean that I am not to speak to him any more!"

My sobs choked me, and I could say no more. 

My father took me on his knee, and tried to comfort me. 

"Don't cry, my little Gretchen, " he said tenderly; "don't cry! Tears canhelp neither the prisoner nor thee. "

"But I may go to him all the same, father?" I pleaded. 

"By my sword, I don't know, " stammered my father. "If it were a breach oforders . . . And yet for a baby like thee . . . Thou'rt no more than a mouseabout the room, after all!"

"I have read of a poor prisoner who broke his heart because the gaolerkilled a spider he loved, " said I, through my tears. 

My father's features relaxed into a smile. 

"But do you flatter yourself that Monsieur Maurice loves my little Mädchenas much as that poor prisoner loved his spider?" he said, taking me by theear. 

"Of course he does--and a hundred thousand times better!" I exclaimed, notwithout a touch of indignation. 

My father laughed outright. 

"Thunder and Mars!" said he, "is the case so serious? Then MonsieurMaurice, I suppose, must be allowed sometimes to see his little petspider. "

He took me up himself next morning to the prisoner's room, and then for thefirst time I found a sentry in occupation of the corridor. He grounded hismusket and saluted as we passed. 

"I bring you a visitor, Monsieur Maurice, " said my father. 

He was leaning over the fire in a moody attitude when we went in, with hisarms on the chimney-piece, but turned at the first sound of my father'svoice. 

"Colonel Bernhard, " he said, with a look of glad surprise, "this is kind, I--I had scarcely dared to hope". . . . 

He said no more, but took me by both hands, and kissed me on the forehead. 

"I trust I'm not doing wrong, " said my father gruffly. "I hope it's not abreach of orders. "

"I am sure it is not, " replied Monsieur Maurice, still holding my hands. "Were your instructions twice as strict, they could not be supposed toapply to this little maiden. "

"They are strict enough, Monsieur Maurice, " said my father, drily. 

A faint flush rose to the prisoner's cheek. 

"I know it, " he said. "And they are as unnecessary as they are strict. Ihad given you my parole, Colonel Bernhard. "

My father pulled at his moustache, and looked uncomfortable. 

"I'm sure you would have kept it, Monsieur Maurice, " he said. 

Monsieur Maurice bowed. 

"I wish it, however, to be distinctly understood, " he said, "that Iwithdrew that parole from the moment when a sentry was stationed at mydoor. "

"Naturally--naturally. "

"And, for my papers". . . . 

"I wish to heaven they had said nothing about them!" interrupted my father, impatiently. 

"Thanks. 'Tis a petty tyranny; but it cannot be helped. Since, however, you are instructed to seize them, here they are. They contain neitherpolitical nor private matter--as you will see. "

"I shall see nothing of the kind, Monsieur Maurice, " said my father. "Iwould not read a line of them for a marshal's bâton. The King must make agaoler of me, if it so pleases him; but not a spy. I shall seal up thepapers and send them to Berlin. "

"And I shall never see my manuscript again!" said Monsieur Maurice, with asigh. "Well--it was my first attempt at authorship--perhaps, my last--andthere is an end to it!"

My father ground some new and tremendous oath between his teeth. 

"I hate to take it, Monsieur Maurice, " he said. "'Tis an odious office. "

"The office alone is yours, Colonel Bernhard, " said the prisoner, with alla Frenchman's grace. "The odium rests with those who impose it on you. "

Hereupon they exchanged formal salutations; and my father, having warned menot to be late for our mid-day meal, put the papers in his pocket, and leftme to take my daily French lesson. 

7

The Winter lingered long, but the Spring came at last in a burst ofsunshine. The grey mists were rent away, as if by magic. The cold huesvanished from the landscape. The earth became all freshness; the air allwarmth; the sky all light. The hedgerows caught a tint of tender green. The crocuses came up in a single night. The woods which till now hadremained bare and brown, flushed suddenly, as if the coming Summer wereimprisoned in their glowing buds. The birds began to try their littlevoices here and there. Never once, in all the years that have gone bysince then, have I seen so startling a transition. It was as if the Princein the dear old fairy tale had just kissed the Sleeping Beauty, and allthat enchanted world had sprung into life at the meeting of their lips. 

But the Spring, with its sudden beauty and brightness, seems to have nocharm for Monsieur Maurice. He has permission to walk in the grounds twicea week--with a sentry at his heels; but of that permission he sternlyrefuses to take advantage. It was not wonderful that he preferred hisfireside and his books, while the sleet, and snow, and bitter east windslasted; but it seems too cruel that he should stay there now, cuttinghimself off from all the warmth and sweetness of the opening season. Invain I come to him with my hands full of dewy crocuses. In vain I hangabout him, pleading for just a turn or two on the terrace where thesunshine falls hottest. He shakes his head, and is immoveable. 

"No, petite, " he says. "Not to-day. "

"That is just what you said yesterday, Monsieur Maurice. "

"And it is just what I shall say to-morrow, Gretchen, if you ask me again. "

"But you won't stay in for ever, Monsieur Maurice!"

"Nay--'for ever' is a big word, little Gretchen. "

"I don't believe you know how brightly the sun is shining!" I saycoaxingly. "Just come to the window, and see. "

Unwillingly enough, he lets himself be dragged across the room--unwillinglyhe looks out upon the glittering slopes and budding avenues beyond. 

"Yes, yes--I see it, " he replies with an impatient sigh; "but the shadow ofthat fellow in the corridor would hide the brightest sun that ever shone! Iam not a galley-slave, that I should walk about with a garde-chiourmebehind me. "

"What do you mean, Monsieur Maurice?" I ask, startled by his unusualvehemence. 

"I mean that I go free, petite--or not at all. "

"Then--then you will fall ill!" I falter, amid fast-gathering tears. 

"No, no--not I, Gretchen. What can have put that idea into your wise littlehead?"

"It was papa, Monsieur Maurice . . . He said you were". . . . 

Then, thinking suddenly how pale and wasted he had become of late, Ihesitated. 

"He said I was--What?"

"I--I don't like to tell!"

"But if I insist on being told? Come, Gretchen, I must know what ColonelBernhard said. "

"He said it was wrong to stay in like this week after week, and month aftermonth. He--he said you were killing yourself by inches, Monsieur Maurice. "

Monsieur Maurice laughed a short bitter laugh. 

"Killing myself!" he repeated. "Well, I hope not; for weary as I am of it, I would sooner go on bearing the burden of life than do my enemies thefavour of dying out of their way. "

The words, the look, the accent made me tremble. I never forgot them. 

How could I forget that Monsieur Maurice had enemies--enemies who longedfor his death?

So the first blush of early Spring went by; and the crocuses lived theirlittle life and passed away, and the primroses came in their turn, yellowing every shady nook in the scented woods; and the larches put ontheir crimson tassels, and the laburnum its mantle of golden fringe, andthe almond-tree burst into a leafless bloom of pink--and still MonsieurMaurice, adhering to his resolve, refused to stir one step beyond thethreshold of his rooms. 

Sad and monotonous now to the last degree, his life dragged heavily on. Hewrote no more. He read, or seemed to read, nearly the whole day through;but I often observed that his eyes ceased travelling along the lines, andthat sometimes, for an hour and more together, he never turned a page. 

"My little Gretchen, " he said to me one day, "you are too much in theseclose rooms with me, and too little in the open air and sunshine. "

"I had rather be here, Monsieur Maurice, " I replied. 

"But it is not good for you. You are losing all your roses. "

"I don't think it is good for me to be out when you are always indoors, " Isaid, simply. "I don't care to run about, and--and I don't enjoy it. "

He looked at me--opened his lips as if about to speak--then checkedhimself; walked to the window; and looked out silently. 

The next morning, as soon as I made my appearance, he said:--

"The French lesson can wait awhile, petite. Shall we go out for a walkinstead?"

I clapped my hands for joy. 

"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" I cried, "are you in earnest?"

For in truth it seemed almost too good to be true. But Monsieur Maurice wasin earnest, and we went--closely followed by the sentry. 

It was a beautiful, sunny April day. We went down the terraces and slopes;and in and out of the flower-beds, now gaudy with Spring flowers; and on tothe great central point whence the three avenues diverged. Here we restedon a bench under a lime-tree, not far from the huge stone basin where thefountain played every Sunday throughout the Summer, and the sleepywater-lilies rocked to and fro in the sunshine. 

All was very quiet. A gardener went by now and then, with his wheelbarrow, or a gamekeeper followed by his dogs; a blackbird whistled low in thebushes; a cow-bell tinkled in the far distance; the wood-pigeons murmuredsoftly in the plantations. Other passers-by, other sounds there werenone--save when a noisy party of flaxen-haired, bare-footed children camewhooping and racing along, but turned suddenly shy and silent at sight ofMonsieur Maurice sitting under the lime-tree. 

The sentry, meanwhile, took up his position against the pedestal of amutilated statue close by, and leaned upon his musket. 

Monsieur Maurice was at first very silent. Once or twice he closed hiseyes, as if listening to the gentle sounds upon the air--once or twice hecast an uneasy glance in the direction of the sentry; but for a long timehe scarcely moved or spoke. 

At length, as if following up a train of previous thought, he saidsuddenly:--

"There is no liberty. There are comparative degrees of captivity, andcomparative degrees of slavery; but of liberty, our social system knowsnothing but the name. That sentry, if you asked him, would tell you thathe is free. He pities me, perhaps, for being a prisoner. Yet he is evenless free than myself. He is the slave of discipline. He must walk, hold uphis head, wear his hair, dress, eat, and sleep according to the will of hissuperiors. If he disobeys, he is flogged. If he runs away, he is shot. Atthe present moment, he dares not lose sight of me for his life. I havedone him no wrong; yet if I try to escape, it is his duty to shoot me. What is there in my captivity to equal the slavery of his condition? Icannot, it is true, go where I please; but, at least, I am not obliged towalk up and down a certain corridor, or in front of a certain sentry-box, for so many hours a day; and no power on earth could compel me to kill aninnocent man who had never harmed me in his life. "

In an instant I had the whole scene before my eyes--Monsieur Mauriceflying--pursued--shot down--brought back to die!

"But--but you won't try to run away, Monsieur Maurice!" I cried, terrifiedat the picture my own fancy had drawn. 

He darted a scrutinising glance at me, and said, after a moment'shesitation:--

"If I intended to do so, petite, I should hardly tell Colonel Bernhard'slittle daughter beforehand. Besides, why should I care now for liberty?What should I do with it? Have I not lost all that made it worthpossessing--the Hero I worshipped, the Cause I honoured, the home I loved, the woman I adored? What better place for me than a prison . . . Unless thegrave?"

He roused himself. He had been thinking aloud, unconscious of my presence;but seeing my startled eyes fixed full upon his face, he smiled, and saidwith a sudden change of voice and manner:--

"Go pluck me that namesake of yours over yonder--the big white Margueriteon the edge of the grass plat. Thanks, petite. Now I'll be sworn you guesswhat I am going to do with it! No? Well, I am going to question theselittle sibylline leaves, and make the Marguerite tell me whether I amdestined to a prison all the days of my life. What! you never heard of theold flower sortilége? Why, Gretchen, I thought every little German maidenlearned it in the cradle with her mother tongue!"

"But how can the Marguerite answer you, Monsieur Maurice?" I exclaimed. 

"You shall see--but I must tell you first that the flower is not used topronounce upon such serious matters. She is the oracle of village lads andlasses--not of grave prisoners like myself. "

And with this, half sadly, half playfully, he began stripping the leavesoff one by one, and repeating over and over again:--

"Tell me, sweet Marguerite, shall I be free? Soon--in time--perhaps--never! Soon--in time--perhaps--never! Soon--in time--perhaps--"

It was the last leaf. 

"Pshaw!" he said, tossing away the stalk with an impatient laugh. "Youcould have given me as good an answer as that, little Gretchen. Let us goin. "

8

It was about a week after this when I was startled out of my deepestmidnight sleep by a rush of many feet, and a fierce and sudden knocking atmy father's bed-room door--the door opposite my own. 

I sat up, trembling. A bright blaze gleamed along the threshold, and highabove the clamour of tongues outside, I recognised my father's voice, quick, sharp, imperative. Then a door was opened and banged. Then came therush of feet again--then silence. 

It was a strange, wild hubbub; and it had all come, and gone, and was overin less than a minute. But what was it?

Seeing that fiery line along the threshold, I had thought for a momentthat the Château was on fire; but the light vanished with those whobrought it, and all was darkness again. 

"Bertha!" I cried tremulously. "Bertha!"

Now Bertha was my Rhenish hand-maiden, and she slept in a closet openingoff my room; but Bertha was as deaf to my voice as one of the SevenSleepers. 

Suddenly a shrill trumpet-call rang out in the courtyard. 

I sprang out of bed, flew to Bertha, and shook her with all my strengthtill she woke. 

"Bertha! Bertha!" I cried. "Wake up--strike a light--dress me quickly! Imust know what is the matter!"

In vain Bertha yawns, rubs her eyes, protests that I have had a bad dream, and that nothing is the matter. Get up she must; dress herself and me inthe twinkling of an eye; and go upon whatsoever dance I choose to lead her. 

My father is gone, and his door stands wide open. We turn to the stairs, and a cold wind rushes up in our faces. We go down, and find the side-doorthat leads to the courtyard unfastened and ajar. There is not a soul inthe courtyard. There is not the faintest glimmer of light from theguard-house windows. The sentry who walks perpetually to and fro in frontof the gate is not at his post; and the gate is wide open!

Even Bertha sees by this time that something strange is afoot, and staresat me with a face of foolish wonder. 

"Ach, Herr Gott!" she cries, clapping her hands together, "what's that?"

It is very faint, very distant; but quite audible in the dead silence ofthe night. In an instant I know what it is that has happened!

"It is the report of a musket!" I exclaim, seizing her by the hand, anddragging her across the courtyard. "Quick! quick! Oh, Monsieur Maurice!Monsieur Maurice!"

The night is very dark. There is no moon, and the stars, glimmering througha veil of haze, give little light. But we run as recklessly as if it werebright day, past the barracks, past the parade-ground, and round to thegreat gates on the garden side of the Château. These, however, are closed, and the sentry, standing watchful and motionless, with his musket madeready, refuses to let us through. 

In vain I remind him that I am privileged, and that none of these gates areever closed against me. The man is inexorable. 

"No, Fräulein Gretchen, " he says, "I dare not. This is not a fit hour foryou to be out. Pray go home. "

"But Gaspar, good Gaspar, " I plead, clinging to the gate with both hands, "tell me if he has escaped! Hark; oh, hark! there it is again!"

And another, and another shot rings through the still night-air. 

The sentry almost stamps with impatience. 

"Go home, dear little Fräulein! Go home at once, " he says. "There is dangerabroad to-night. I cannot leave my post, or I would take you homemyself. . . . Holy Saint Christopher! they are coming this way! Go--go--whatwould his Excellency the Governor say, if he found you here?"

I see quick gleams of wandering lights among the trees--I hear a distantshout! Then, seized by a sudden panic, I turn and fly, with Bertha at myheels--fly back the way I came, never pausing till I find myself once moreat the courtyard gate. Here--breathless, trembling, panting--I stop tolisten and look back. All is silent;--as silent as before. 

"But, liebe Gretchen, " says Bertha, as breathless as myself, "what is to doto-night?"

There is a coming murmur on the air. There is a red glow reflected on thebarrack windows . . . They are coming! I turn suddenly cold and giddy. 

"Hush, Bertha!" I whisper, "we must not stay here. Papa will be angry! Letus go up to the corridor window. "

So we go back into the house, upstairs the way we came, and stationourselves at the corridor window, which looks into the courtyard. 

Slowly the glow broadens; slowly the sound resolves itself into anirregular tramp of many feet and a murmur of many voices. 

Then suddenly the courtyard is filled with soldiers and lighted torches, and . . . And I clasp my hands over my eyes in an agony of terror, lest thepicture I drew a few days since should be coming true. 

"What do you see, Bertha?" I falter. "Do you--do you see Monsieur Maurice?"

"No, but I see Gottlieb Kolb, and Corporal Fritz, and . . . Yes--here isMonsieur Maurice between two soldiers, and his Excellency the Colonelwalking beside them!"

I looked up, and my heart gave a leap of gladness. He was not dead--he wasnot even wounded! He had been pursued and captured; but at least he wassafe!

They stopped just under the corridor window. The torchlight fell full upontheir faces. Monsieur Maurice looked pale and composed; perhaps just ashade haughtier than usual. My father had his drawn sword in his hand. 

"Corporal Fritz, " he said, turning to a soldier near him, "conduct theprisoner to his room, and post two sentries at his door, and one under hiswindows. " Then turning to Monsieur Maurice, "I thank God, Sir, " he saidgravely, "that you have not paid for your imprudence with your life. Ihave the honour to wish you good night. "

Monsieur Maurice ceremoniously took off his hat. 

"Good night, Colonel Bernhard, " he said. "I beg you, however, to rememberthat I had withdrawn my parole. "

"I remember it, Monsieur Maurice, " replied my father, drawing himself up, and returning the salutation. 

Monsieur Maurice then crossed the courtyard with his guards, and enteredthe Château by the door leading to the state apartments. My father, afterstanding for a moment as if lost in thought, turned away and went over tothe guard-house. 

The soldiers then dispersed, or gathered into little knots of twos andthrees, and talked in low voices of the events of the night. 

"Accomplices!" said one, just close against the window where Bertha and Istill lingered. "Liebe Mutter! I'll take my oath he had one! Why, it was Iwho first caught sight of the prisoner gliding through the trees--I sawhim as plainly as I see you now--I covered him with my musket--I wouldn'thave given a copper pfennig for his life, when paff! at the very moment Ipulled the trigger, out steps a fellow from behind my shoulder, knocks upmy musket, and disappears like a flash of lightning--Heaven only knowswhere, for I never laid eyes on him again!"

"What was he like?" asks another soldier, incredulously. 

"Like? How should I know? It was as dark as pitch. I just caught a glimpseof him in the flash of the powder--an ugly, brown-looking devil he seemed!but he was gone in a breath, and I had no time to look for him. "

The soldiers round about burst out laughing. 

"Hold, Karl!" says one, slapping him boisterously on the shoulder. "You area good shot, but you missed aim for once. No need to conjure up a browndevil to account for that, old comrade!"

Karl, finding his story discredited, retorted angrily; and a quarrel wasfast brewing, when the sergeant on guard came up and ordered the men totheir several quarters. 

"Holy Saint Bridget!" said Bertha, shivering, "how cold it is! and there, Ideclare, is the Convent clock striking half after one! Liebe Gretchen, youreally must go to bed--what would your father say?"

So we both crept back to bed. Bertha was asleep again almost before she hadlaid her head upon her pillow; but I lay awake till dawn of day. 

9

It was in my father's disposition to be both strict and indulgent--that isto say, as a father he was all tenderness, and as a soldier all discipline. His men both loved and feared him; but I, who never had cause to fear himin my life, loved him with all my heart, and never thought of him except asthe fondest of parents. Chiefly, perhaps, for my sake, he had up to thistime been extremely indulgent in all that regarded Monsieur Maurice. Now, however, he conceived that it was his duty to be indulgent no longer. Hewas responsible for the person of Monsieur Maurice, and Monsieur Mauricehad attempted to escape; from this moment, therefore, Monsieur Maurice mustbe guarded, hedged in, isolated, like any other prisoner under similarcircumstances--at all events until further instructions should arrive fromBerlin. So my father, as it was his duty to do, wrote straightway to theMinister of War, doubled all previous precautions, and forbade me to gonear the prisoner's rooms on any pretext whatever. 

I neither coaxed nor pleaded. I had an instinctive feeling that the thingwas inevitable, and that I had nothing to do but to suffer and obey. And Idid suffer bitterly. Day after day, I hung about the terraces under hiswindows, watching for the glimpse that hardly ever came. Night after nightI sobbed till I was tired, and fell asleep with his name upon my lips. Itwas a childish grief; but not therefore the less poignant. It was achildish love, too; necessarily transient and irrational, as such childishpassions are; but not therefore the less real. The dull web of my laterlife has not been without its one golden thread of romance (alas! how longsince tarnished!), but not even that dream has left a deeper scar upon mymemory than did the hero-worship of my first youth. It was something morethan love; it was adoration. To be with him was measureless content--to bebanished from him was something akin to despair. 

So Monsieur Maurice and his little Gretchen were parted. No more happyFrench lessons--no more walks--no more stories told by the firelight in thegloaming! All was over; all was blank. But for how long? Surely not forever!

"Perhaps the king will think fit to hand him over to some other gaoler, "said my father one day; "and, by Heaven! I'd thank him more heartily forthat boon than for the order of the Red Eagle!"

My heart sank at the thought. Many and many a time had I pictured to myselfwhat it would be if he were set at liberty, and with what mingled joy andgrief I should bid him good-bye; but it had never occurred to me as apossibility that he might be transferred to another prison-house. 

Thus a week--ten days--a fortnight went by, and still there came nothingfrom Berlin. I began to hope at last that nothing would come, and thatmatters would settle down in time, and be as they were before. But of suchvain hopes I was speedily and roughly disabused; and in this wise. 

It was a gloomy afternoon--one of those dun-coloured afternoons that seemall the more dismal for coming in the midst of Spring. I had been out ofthe way somewhere (wandering to and fro, I believe, like a dreary littleghost, among the grim galleries of the state apartments), and was goinghome at dusk to be in readiness for my father, who always came in afterthe afternoon parade. Coming up the passage out of which our rooms opened, I heard voices--my father's and another. Concluding that he had CorporalFritz with him, I went in unhesitatingly. To my surprise, I found the lamplighted, and a strange officer sitting face to face with my father at thetable. 

The stranger was in the act of speaking; my father listening, with a grave, intent look upon his face. 

. . . "and if he had been shot, Colonel Bernhard, the State would have beenwell rid of a troublesome burden. "

My father saw me in the doorway, put up his hand with a warning gesture, and said hastily:--

"You here, Gretchen! Go into the dining-room, my child, till I send foryou. "

The dining-room, as I have said elsewhere, opened out of the sitting-roomwhich also served for my father's bureau. I had therefore to cross theroom, and so caught a full view of the stranger's face. He was a sallow, dark man, with iron grey hair cut close to his head, a hard mouth, a coldgrey eye, and a deep furrow between his brows. He wore a blue militaryfrock buttoned to the chin; and a plain cocked hat lay beside his glovesupon the table. 

I went into the dining-room and closed the door. It was half-door, half-window, the upper panels being made of ground glass, so as to let in aborrowed light; for the little room was at all times somewhat of thedarkest. Such as it was, this borrowed light was now all I had; for thedining-room fire had gone out hours ago, and though there were candles onthe chimney-piece, I had no means of lighting them. So I groped my way tothe first chair I could find, and waited my father's summons. 

"And if he had been shot, Colonel Bernhard, the State would have been wellrid of a troublesome burden. "

It was all I had heard; but it was enough to set me thinking. "If he hadbeen shot". . . . If who had been shot? My fears answered that question buttoo readily. Who, then, was this new-comer? Was he from Berlin? And if fromBerlin, what orders did he bring? A vague terror of coming evil fell uponme. I trembled--I held my breath. I tried to hear what was being said, butin vain. The voices in the next room went on in a low incessant murmur;but of that murmur I could not distinguish a word. 

Then the sounds swelled a little, as if the speakers were becoming moreearnest. And then, forgetting all I had ever heard or been taught about theheinousness of eavesdropping, I got up very softly and crept close againstthe door. 

"That is to say, you dislike the responsibility, Colonel Bernhard. "

These were the first words I heard. 

"I dislike the office, " said my father, bluntly. "I'd almost as soon be ahangman as a gaoler. "

The stranger here said something that my ear failed to catch. Then myfather spoke again. 

"To tell you the truth, Herr Count, I only wish it would please HisExcellency to transfer him elsewhere. "

The stranger paused a moment, and then said in a low but very distinctvoice:--

"Supposing, Colonel Bernhard, that you were yourself transferred--shall wesay to Königsberg? Would you prefer it to Brühl?"

"Königsberg!" exclaimed my father in a tone of profound amazement. 

"The appointment, I believe, is worth six hundred thalers a year more thanBrühl, " said the stranger. 

"But it has never been offered to me, " said my father, in his simplestraightforward way. "Of course I should prefer it--but what of that? Andwhat has Königsberg to do with Monsieur Maurice?"

"Ah, true--Monsieur Maurice! Well, to return then to Monsieur Maurice--howwould it be, do you think, somewhat to relax the present vigilance?"

"To relax it?"

"To leave a door or a window unguarded now and then, for instance. Inshort, to--to provide certain facilities . . . You understand?"

"Facilities?" exclaimed my father, incredulously. "Facilities for escape?"

"Well--yes; if you think fit to put it so plainly, " replied the other, witha short little cough, followed by a snap like the opening and shutting ofa snuff-box. 

"But--but in the name of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, why wait for the manto run away? Why not give him his liberty, and get rid of him pleasantly?"

"Because--ahem!--because, you see, Colonel Bernhard, it would not then bepossible to pursue him, " said the stranger, drily. 

"To pursue him?"

"Just so--and to shoot him. "

I heard the sound of a chair pushed violently back; and my father's shadow, vague and menacing, started up with him, and fell across the door. 

"What?" he shouted, in a terrible voice. "Are you taking me at my word? Areyou offering me the hangman's office?"

Then, with a sudden change of tone and manner, he added:--

"But--I must have misunderstood you. It is impossible. "

"We have both altogether misunderstood each other, Colonel Bernhard, " saidthe stranger, stiffly. "I had supposed you would be willing to serve theState, even at the cost of some violence to your prejudices. "

"Great God! then you did mean it!" said my father, with a strange horror inhis voice. 

"I meant--to serve the King. I also hoped to advance the interests ofColonel Bernhard, " replied the other, haughtily. 

"My sword is the King's--my blood is the King's, to the last drop, " said myfather in great agitation; "but my honour--my honour is my own!"

"Enough, Colonel Bernhard; enough. We will drop the subject. "

And again I heard the little dry cough, and the snap of the snuff-box. 

A long silence followed, my father walking to and fro with a quick, heavystep; the stranger, apparently, still sitting in his place at the table. 

"Should you, on reflection, see cause to take a different view of yourduty, Colonel Bernhard, " he said at last, "you have but to say sobefore. . . . "

"I can never take a different view of it, Herr Count!" interrupted myfather, vehemently. 

"--before I take my departure in the morning, " continued the other, withstudied composure; "in the meanwhile, be pleased to remember that you areanswerable for the person of your prisoner. Either he must not escape, orhe must not escape with life. "

My father's shadow bent its head. 

"And now, with your permission, I will go to my room. "

My father rang the bell, and when Bertha came, bade her light the Count vonRettel to his chamber. 

Hearing them leave the room, I opened the door very softly andhesitatingly, scarce knowing whether to come out or not. I saw my fatherstanding with his back towards me and his face still turned in thedirection by which they had gone out. I saw him throw up his clenchedhands, and shake them wildly above his head. 

"And it was for this!--for this!" he said fiercely. "A bribe! God ofHeaven! He offered me Königsberg as a bribe! Oh, that I should have livedto be treated as an assassin!"

His voice broke into hoarse sobs. He dropped into a chair--he covered hisface with his hands. 

He had forgotten that I was in the next room, and now I dared not remindhim of my presence. His emotion terrified me. It was the first time I hadseen a man shed tears; and this alone, let the man be whom he might, wouldhave seemed terrible to me at any time. How much more terrible when thosetears were tears of outraged honour, and when the man who shed them was myfather!

I trembled from head to foot. I had an instinctive feeling that I oughtnot to look upon his agony. I shrank back--closed the door--held mybreath, and waited. 

Presently the sound of sobbing ceased. Then he sighed heavily twice orthrice--got up abruptly--threw a couple of logs on the fire, and left theroom. The next moment I heard him unlock the door under the stairs, and gointo the cellar. I seized the opportunity to escape, and stole up to myown room as rapidly and noiselessly as my trembling knees would carry me. 

I had my supper with Bertha that evening, and the Count ate at my father'stable; but I afterwards learned that, though the Governor of Brühl himselfwaited ceremoniously upon his guest and served him with his best, heneither broke bread nor drank wine with him. 

I saw that unwelcome guest no more. I heard his voice under the window, andthe clatter of his horse's hoofs as he rode away in the early morning; butthat was long enough before Bertha came to call me. 

10

Weeks went by. Spring warmed, and ripened, and blossomed into Summer. Gardens and terraces were ablaze once more with many-coloured flowers;fountains played and sparkled in the sunshine; and travellers bound forCologne or Bonn put up again at Brühl in the midst of the day's journey, to bait their horses and see the Château on their way. 

For in these years just following the Peace of Paris, the Continent wasoverrun by travellers, two thirds of whom were English. The diligence--thegreat, top-heavy, lumbering diligence of fifty years ago--used then tocome lurching and thundering down the main street five times a weekthroughout the Summer season; and as many as three and four travellingcarriages a day would pass through in fine weather. The landlord of the"Lion d'Or" kept fifty horses in his stables in those days, and drove athriving trade. 

So the Summer came, and brought the stir of outer life into the precinctsof our sleepy Château; but brought no better change in the fortunes ofMonsieur Maurice. Ever since that fatal night, the terms of hisimprisonment had been more rigorous than ever. Till then, he might, if hewould, walk twice a week in the grounds with a soldier at his heels; butnow he was placed in strict confinement in his own two rooms, with onesentry always pacing the corridor outside his door, and another under hiswindows. And across each of those windows might now be seen a couple ofbright new iron bars, thick as a man's wrist, forged and fixed there bythe village blacksmith. 

I have no words to tell how the sight of those bars revolted me. If insteadof being a little helpless girl, I had been a man like my father, and aservant of the State, I think they would have made a rebel of me. 

Worse, however, than iron bars, locked doors, and guarded corridors, wasHartmann--Herr Ludwig Hartmann, as he was styled in the despatch thatannounced his coming--a pale, slight, silent man, with colourless grey eyesand white eyelashes, who came direct from Berlin about a month later, toact as Monsieur Maurice's "personal attendant. " Stealthy, watchful, secret, civil, he established himself in a room adjoining the prisoner'sapartment, and was as much at home in the course of a couple of hours asif he had been settled there from the first. 

He brought with him a paper of instructions, and, having on his arrivalsubmitted these instructions to my father, he at once took up a certainroutine of duties that never varied. He brushed Monsieur Maurice's clothes, waited upon him at table, attended him in his bed-room, was always withinhearing, always on the alert, and haunted the prisoner like his shadow. Noteven a housemaid could go in to sweep but he was present. Now the man'sperpetual presence was intolerable to Monsieur Maurice. He had borne allelse with patience, but this last tyranny was more than he could endurewithout murmuring. He appealed to my father; but my father, thoughGovernor of Brühl, was powerless to help him. Hartmann had presented hisinstructions as a minister presents his credentials, and thoseinstructions emanated from Berlin. So the new-comer, valet, gaoler, spy ashe was, became an established fact, and was detested throughout theChâteau--by no one more heartily than myself. 

I still, however, saw Monsieur Maurice now and then. My father often tookme with him in his rounds, and always when he visited his prisoner. Sometimes, too, he would leave me for an hour with my friend, and call forme again on his way back; so that we were not wholly parted even now. ButHartmann took care never to leave us alone. Before my father's footstepswere out of hearing, he would be in the room; silent, unobtrusive, perfectly civil, but watchful as a lynx. We could not talk before himfreely. Nothing was as it used to be. It was better than totalbanishments; it was better than never hearing his voice; but the constraintwas hard to bear, and the pain of these meetings was almost greater thanthe pleasure. 

And now, as I approach that part of my narrative which possesses thedeepest interest for myself, I hesitate--hesitate and draw back before thegreat mystery in which it is involved. I ask myself what interpretationthe world will put upon facts for which I can vouch; upon events which Imyself witnessed? I cannot prove those events. They happened over fiftyyears ago; but they are as vividly present to my memory as if they hadtaken place yesterday. I can only relate them in their order, knowing themto be true, and leaving each reader to judge of them according to hisconvictions. 

It was about the middle of the second week in June. Hartmann had been aboutsix weeks at Brühl, and all was going on in the usual dull routine, whenthat routine was suddenly broken by the arrival of three mounteddragoons--an officer and two privates--whose errand, whatever it might be, had the effect of throwing the whole establishment into sudden and unwontedconfusion. 

I was out in the grounds when they arrived, and came back at midday to findno dinner on the table, no cook in the kitchen; but a full-dress paradegoing on in the courtyard, and all the interior of the Château in a stateof wild commotion. Here were peasants bringing in wood, gardeners ladenwith vegetables and flowers, women running to and fro with baskets full oflinen, and all to the accompaniment of such a hammering, bell-ringing, andclattering of tongues as I had never heard before. 

I stood bewildered, not knowing what to do, or where to go. 

"What is the matter? What has happened? What are you doing?" I asked, firstof one and then of another; but they were all too busy to answer. 

"Ach, lieber Gott!" said one, "I've no time for talking!"

"Don't ask me, little Fräulein, " said another. "I have eight windows toclean up yonder, and only one pair of hands to do them with!"

"If you want to know what is to do, " said a third impatiently, "you hadbetter come and see. "

The head-gardener's son came by with two pots of magnificent geraniums, oneunder each arm. 

"Where are you going with those flowers, Wilhelm?" I asked, running afterhim. 

"They are for the state salon, Fräulein Gretchen, " he replied, and hurriedon. 

For the state salon! I ran round to the side of the grand entrance. Therewere soldiers putting up banners in the hall; others helping to carryfurniture up stairs; carpenters with ladders; women with brooms andbrushes; and Corporal Fritz bustling hither and thither, giving orders, andseeing after everything. 

"But Corporal Fritz!" I exclaimed, "what are all these people about?"

"We are preparing the state apartments, dear little Fräulein, " repliedCorporal Fritz, rubbing his hands with an air of great enjoyment. 

"But why? For whom?"

"For whom? Why, for the King, to be sure"; and Corporal Fritz clapped hishand to the side of his hat like a loyal soldier. "Don't you know, dearlittle Fräulein, that His Majesty sleeps here to-night, on his way toEhrenbreitstein?"

This was news indeed! I ran up stairs--I was all excitement--I got ineverybody's way--I tormented everybody with questions. I saw the tablebeing laid in the grand salon where the King was to sup, and the bedsteadbeing put up in the little salon where he was to sleep, and the ante-roombeing prepared for his officers. All was being made ready as rapidly, anddecorated as tastefully, as the scanty resources of the Château wouldpermit. I recognised much of the furniture from the attics above, andthis, faded though it was, being helped out with flowers, flags, andgreenery, made the great echoing rooms look gay and habitable. 

By and by, my father came round to see how the work was going on, andfinding me in the midst of it, took me by the hand and led me away. 

"You are not wanted here, my little Gretchen, " he said; "and, indeed, allthe world is so busy to-day that I scarcely know what to do with thee. "

"Take me to Monsieur Maurice!" I said, coaxingly. 

"Ay--so I will, " said my father; "with him, at all events, you will be outof the way. "

So he took me round to Monsieur Maurice's rooms, and told me as we wentalong that the King had only given him six hours' notice, and that inorder to furnish his Majesty's bed and his Majesty's supper, he had boughtup all the poultry and eggs, and borrowed well-nigh all the silver, glass, and linen in the town. 

By this time we were almost at Monsieur Maurice's door. A sudden thoughtflashed upon me. I pulled him back, out of the sentry's hearing. 

"Oh, father!" I cried eagerly, "will you not ask the King to let MonsieurMaurice free?"

My father shook his head. 

"Nay, " he said, "I must not do that, my little Mädchen. And look you--not aword that the King is coming here to-night. It would only make the prisonerrestless, and could avail nothing. Promise me to be silent. "

So I promised, and he left me at the door without going in. 

I spent all the afternoon with Monsieur Maurice. He divided his luncheonwith me; he gave me a French lesson, he told me stories. I had not hadsuch a happy day for months. Hartmann, it is true, was constantly in andout of the room, but even Hartmann was less in the way than usual. Heseemed absent and preoccupied, and was therefore not so watchful as atother times. In the meanwhile I could still hear, though faintly, thenoises in the rooms below; but all became quiet about five o'clock in theevening, and Monsieur Maurice, who had been told they were only cleaningthe state apartments, asked no questions. 

Meanwhile the afternoon waned, and the sun bent westward, and still no onecame to fetch me away. My father knew where I was; Bertha was probably toobusy to think about me; and I was only too glad to stay as long asMonsieur Maurice was willing to keep me. By and by, about half-past sixo'clock, the sky became overclouded, and we heard a low muttering of verydistant thunder. At seven, it rained heavily. 

Now it was Monsieur Maurice's custom to dine late, and ours to dine early;but then, as his luncheon hour corresponded with our dinner-hour, and hisdinner fell only a little later than our supper, it came to much the samething, and did not therefore seem strange. So it happened that just as thestorm came up, Hartmann began to prepare the table. Then, in the midst ofthe rain and the wind, my quick ear caught a sound of drums and bugles, and I knew the King was come. Monsieur Maurice evidently heard nothing;but I could see by Hartmann's face (he was laying the cloth and making anoise with the glasses) that he knew all, and was listening. 

After this I heard no more. The wind raved; the rain pattered; the gloomthickened; and at half-past seven, when the soup was brought to table, itwas so dark that Monsieur Maurice called for lights. He would not, however, allow the curtains to be drawn. He liked, he said, to sit and watch thestorm. 

A cover was laid for me at his right hand; but my supper hour was past, andwhat with the storm without, the heaviness in the air, and the excitementof the day, I was no longer hungry. So, having eaten a little soup andsipped some wine from Monsieur Maurice's glass, I went and curled myself upin an easy chair close to the window, and watched the driving mists as theyswept across the park, and the tossing of the treetops against the sky. 

It was a wild evening, lit by lurid gleams and openings in the clouds; andit seemed all the wilder by contrast with the quiet room and the dimradiance of the wax lights on the table. There was a soft halo round eachlittle flame, and a dreamy haze in the atmosphere, from the midst of whichMonsieur Maurice's pale face stood out against the shadowy background, likea head in a Dutch painting. 

We were both very silent; partly because Hartmann was waiting, and partly, perhaps, because we had been talking all the afternoon. Monsieur Mauriceate slowly, and there were long intervals between the courses, during whichhe leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, looking acrosstowards the window and the storm. Hartmann, meanwhile, seemed to be alwayslistening. I could see that he was holding his breath, and trying to catchevery faint echo from below. 

It was a long, long dinner, and probably seemed all the longer to mebecause I did not partake of it. As for Monsieur Maurice, he tasted somedishes, and sent more away untouched. 

"I think it is getting lighter, " he said by and by. "Does it still rain?"

"Yes, " I replied; "it is coming down steadily. "

"We must open the window presently, " he said. "I love the fresh smell thatcomes with the rain. "

Here the conversation dropped again, and Hartmann, having been gone for amoment, came back with a dish of stewed fruit. 

Then, for the first time, I observed there was a second attendant in theroom. 

"Will you not have some raspberries, Gretchen?" said Monsieur Maurice. 

I shook my head. I was too much startled by the sight of the strange man, to answer him in words. 

Who could he be? Where had he come from? He was standing behind MonsieurMaurice, far back in the gloom, near the door--a small, dark man, apparently; but so placed with regard to the table and the lights, that itwas impossible to make out his features with distinctness. 

Monsieur Maurice just tasted the raspberries and sent his plate away. 

"How heavy the air of the room is!" he said. "Give me some Seltzer-water, and open that farthest window. "

Hartmann reversed the order. He opened the window first; and as he did so, I saw that his hand shook upon the hasp, and that his face was deadlypale. 

He then turned to the sideboard and opened a stone bottle that had beenstanding there since the beginning of dinner. He filled a tumbler with thesparkling water. 

At the moment when he placed this tumbler on the salver--at the moment whenhe handed it to Monsieur Maurice--the other man glided quickly forward. Isaw his bright eyes and his brown face in the full light. I saw _twohands_ put out to take the glass; a brown hand and a white--his hand, and the hand of Monsieur Maurice. I saw--yes, before Heaven! as I live toremember and record it, I saw the brown hand grasp the tumbler and dash itto the ground!

"Pshaw!" said Monsieur Maurice, brushing the Seltzer-water impatiently fromhis sleeve, "how came you to upset it?"

But Hartmann, livid and trembling, stood speechless, staring at the door. 

"It was the other man!" said I, starting up with a strange kind ofbreathless terror upon me. "He threw it on the ground--I saw him doit--where is he gone? what has become of him?"

"The other man! What other man?" said Monsieur Maurice. "My littleGretchen, you are dreaming. "

"No, no, I am not dreaming. There was another man--a brown man! Hartmannsaw him--"

"A brown man!" echoed Monsieur Maurice. Then catching sight of Hartmann'sface, he pushed his chair back, looked at him steadily and sternly; andsaid, with a sudden change of voice and manner:--

"There is something wrong here. What does it mean? You saw a man--both ofyou? What was he like?"

"A brown man, " I said again. "A brown man with bright eyes. "

"And you?" said Monsieur Maurice, turning to Hartmann. 

"I--I thought I saw something, " stammered the attendant, with a violenteffort at composure. "But it was nothing. "

Monsieur Maurice looked at him as if he would look him through; got up, still looking at him; went to the sideboard, and, still looking at him, filled another tumbler with Seltzer-water. 

"Drink that, " he said, very quietly. 

The man's lips moved, but he uttered never a word. 

"Drink that, " said Monsieur Maurice for the second time, and more sternly. 

But Hartmann, instead of drinking it, instead of answering, threw up hishands in a wild way, and rushed out of the room. 

Monsieur Maurice stood for a moment absorbed in thought; then wrote somewords upon a card, and gave the card into my hand. 

"For thy father, little one, " he said. "Give it to no one but himself, andgive it to him the first moment thou seest him. There's matter of life anddeath in it. "

11

How the King supped, how the King slept, and what he thought of his Châteauof Augustenburg which he now saw for the first time, are matters respectingwhich I have no information. I only know that I had fallen asleep onMonsieur Maurice's sofa when Bertha came at ten o'clock that night to fetchme home; that I was very drowsy and unwilling to be moved; and that I wokein the morning dreaming of a brown man with bright eyes, and calling uponMonsieur Maurice to make haste and come before he should again have time tovanish away. 

It was a lovely morning; bright and fresh, and sunshiny after the night'sstorm. My first thought was of Monsieur Maurice, and the card he hadentrusted to my keeping. I had it still. My father was not at home when Icame back last night. He was in attendance on the King, and did not returntill long after I was asleep in my own little bed. This morning, early as Iawoke, he was gone again, on the same duty. 

I jumped up. I bade Bertha dress me quickly. "I must go to papa, " I said. "I have a card for him from Monsieur Maurice. "

"Nay, liebe Gretchen, " said Bertha, "he is with the King. "

But I told myself that I would find him, and see him, and give the cardinto his own hands, though a dozen kings were in the way. I could not readwhat was written on the card. I could read print easily and rapidly, buthandwriting not at all. I knew, however, that it was urgent. Had he notsaid that it was matter of life or death?

I hurried to dress; I hurried to get out. I could not rest, I could not eattill I had given up the card. As good fortune would have it, the firstperson I met was Corporal Fritz. I asked him where I could find my father. 

"Dear little Fräulein, " said Corporal Fritz, "you cannot see him just yet. He is with the King. "

"But I must see him, " I said. "I must--indeed, I must. Go to him forme--please go to him, dear, good Corporal Fritz, and tell him his littleGretchen must speak to him, if only for one moment!"

"But dear little Fräulein". . . . 

"Is the King at breakfast?" I interrupted. 

"At breakfast! Eh, then, our gallant King hath a soldier's habits. HisMajesty breakfasted at six this morning, and is gone out betimes to visithis hunting-lodge at Falkenlust. "

"And my father?"

"His Excellency the Governor is in attendance upon the King. "

"Then I will go to Falkenlust. "

Corporal Fritz shook his head; shrugged his shoulders; took a pinch ofsnuff. 

"'Tis a long road to Falkenlust, dear little Fräulein, " said he; "and HisExcellency, methinks, would be better pleased". . . . 

I stayed to hear no more, but ran off at full speed down the terraces, straight to the Round Point and the fountain, and along the great avenuethat led to Falkenlust. I ran till I was out of breath--then rested--thenran again, on, and on, and on, till the road lengthened and narrowed behindme, and the Château of Augustenburg looked almost as small in the distanceat one end as the Falkenlust Lodge at the other. 

Then all at once, far, far away, I saw a moving group of figures. They grewlarger and more distinct--they were coming towards me! I had run till Icould run no farther. Panting and breathless, I leaned against a tree, andwaited. 

And now, as they drew nearer, I saw that the group consisted of some eightor ten officers, two of whom were walking somewhat in advance of the rest. One of the two wore a plain cocked hat and an undress military frock; theother was in full uniform, and wore two or three glittering medals on hisbreast. This other was my father. I scarcely looked at the first. I nevereven asked myself whether he was, or was not the King. I had no eyes, nothought for any but my father. 

So I stood, eager and breathless, on the verge of the gravel. So they everymoment drew nearer the spot where I was standing. As they came close, myfather's eyes met mine. He shook his head, and frowned. He thought I hadcome there to stare at the King. 

Nothing daunted, I took two steps forward. I had Monsieur Maurice's card inmy hand. I held it out to him. 

"Read it, " I said. "It is from Monsieur Maurice. "

But he crushed it in his hand without looking at it, and waved me backauthoritatively. 

"At once!" I cried; "at once!"

The gentleman in the blue frock stopped and smiled. 

"Is this your little girl, Colonel Bernhard?" he asked. 

My father replied by a low bow. 

The strange gentleman beckoned me to draw nearer. 

"A golden-haired little Mädchen!" said he. "Come hither, pretty one, andtell me your name. "

I knew then that he was the King. I trembled and blushed. 

"My name is Gretchen, " I said. 

"And you have brought a letter for your father?"

"It is not a letter, " I said. "It is a card. It is from Monsieur Maurice. "

"And who is Monsieur Maurice?" asked the King. 

"So please your Majesty, " said my father, answering the question for me, "Monsieur Maurice is the prisoner I hold in charge. "

The smile went out of the King's face. 

"The prisoner!" he repeated, inquiringly. "What prisoner?"

"The state-prisoner whom I received, according to your Majesty's command, eight months ago--Monsieur Maurice. "

"Monsieur Maurice!" echoed the King. 

"I know the gentleman by no other name, please your Majesty, " said myfather. 

The King looked grave. 

"I never heard of Monsieur Maurice, " he said, "I know of no state-prisonerhere. "

"The prisoner was consigned to my keeping by your Majesty's Minister ofWar, " said my father. 

"By von Bulow?"

My father bowed. 

"Upon whose authority?"

"In your Majesty's name. "

The King frowned. 

"What papers did you receive with your prisoner, Colonel Bernhard?" hesaid. 

"None, your Majesty--except a despatch from your Majesty's Minister of War, delivered a day or two before the prisoner arrived at Brühl. "

"How did he come? and where did he come from?"

"He came in a close carriage, your Majesty, attended by two officers wholeft Brühl the same night and whose names and persons are unknown to me. Ido not know where he came from. I only know that they had taken the lastrelay of horses from Cologne. "

"You were not told his offence?"

"I was told nothing, your Majesty, except that Monsieur Maurice was anenemy to the state, and--"

"And what?"

My father's hand went up to his moustache, as it was wont to do inperplexity. 

"I--so please your Majesty, I think there is some foul mystery in it atbottom, " he said, bluntly. "There hath been that thing proposed to me thatI am ashamed to repeat. I do beseech your Majesty that someinvestigation. . . . "

His eyes happened for a moment to rest upon the card. He stammered--changedcolour--stopped short in his sentence--took off his hat--laid the card uponit--and so handed it to the King. 

His Majesty Frederick William the Third of Prussia was, like most of theprinces of his house, tanned, soldierly, and fresh-complexioned; but floridas he was, there came a darker flush into his face as he read what MonsieurMaurice had written. 

"An attempt upon his life!" he exclaimed. "The thing is not possible. "

My father was silent. The king looked at him keenly. 

"_Is_ it possible, Colonel Bernhard?" he said. 

"I think it may be possible, your Majesty, " replied my father in a lowvoice. 

The King frowned. 

"Colonel Bernhard, " he said, "how can that be? You are responsible for thesafety as well as the person of any prisoner committed to your charge. "

"So long as the prisoner is left wholly to my charge I can answer for hissafety with my head, so please your Majesty, " said my father, reddening;"but not when he is provided with a special attendant over whom I have nocontrol. "

"What special attendant? Where did he come from? Who sent him?"

"I believe he came from Berlin, your Majesty. He was sent by your Majesty'sMinister of War. His name is Hartmann. "

The King stood thinking. His officers had fallen out of earshot, and weretalking together in a little knot some four yards behind. I was stillstanding on the spot to which the King had called me. He looked round, andsaw my anxious face. 

"What, still there, little one?" he said. "You have not heard what we weresaying?"

"Yes, " I said; "I heard it. "

"The child may have heard, your Majesty, " interposed my father, hastily;"but she did not understand. Run home, Gretchen. Make thy obeisance to hisMajesty, and run home quickly. "

But I had understood every word. I knew that Monsieur Maurice's life hadbeen in danger. I knew the King was all-powerful. Terrified at my ownboldness--terrified at the thought of my father's anger--trembling--sobbing--scarcely conscious of what I was saying, I fell at theKing's feet, and cried:--

"Save him--save him, Sire! Don't let them kill poor Monsieur Maurice!Forgive him--please forgive him, and let him go home again!"

My father seized me by the hand, forced me to rise, and dragged me backmore roughly than he had ever touched me in his life. 

"I beseech your Majesty's pardon for the child, " he said. "She knows nobetter. "

But the King smiled, and called me back to him. 

"Nay, nay, " he said, laying his hand upon my head, "do not be vexed withher. So, little one, you and Monsieur Maurice are friends?"

I nodded; for I was still crying, and too frightened at what I had done tobe able to speak. 

"And you love him dearly?"

"Better than anyone--in the world--except Papa, " I faltered, through mytears. 

"Not better than your brothers and sisters?"

"I have no brothers and sisters, " I replied, my courage coming back againby degrees. "I have no one but Papa, and Monsieur Maurice, and Aunt MarthaBaur--and I love Monsieur Maurice a thousand, thousand times more than AuntMartha Baur!"

There came a merry sparkle into the King's eyes, and my father turned hisface away to conceal a smile. 

"But if Monsieur Maurice was free, he would go away and you would never seehim again. What would you do then?"

"I--should be very sorry, " I faltered; "but". . . . 

"But what?"

"I would rather he went away, and was happy. "

The King stooped down and kissed me on the brow. 

"That, my little Mädchen, is the answer of a true friend, " he said, gravelyand kindly. "If your Monsieur Maurice deserves to go free, he shall havehis liberty. You have our royal word for it. Colonel Bernhard, we willinvestigate this matter without the delay of an hour. "

Saying thus, he turned from me to my father, and, followed by his officers, passed on in the direction of the Château. 

I stood there speechless, his gracious words yet ringing in my ears. He hadleft me no time for thanks, if even I could have framed any. But he hadkissed me--he had promised me that Monsieur Maurice should go free, "if hedeserved it!" and who better than I knew how impossible it was that heshould not deserve it? It was all true. It was not a dream. I had theKing's royal word for it. 

I had the King's royal word for it--and yet I could hardly believe it!

12

I have told my story up to this point from my own personal experience, relating in their order, quite simply and faithfully, the things I myselfheard and saw. I can do this, however, no longer. Respecting those mattersthat happened when I was not present, I can only repeat what was told me byothers; and as regards certain foregone events in the life of MonsieurMaurice, I have but vague rumour; and still more vague conjecture uponwhich to base my conclusions. 

The King had said that Monsieur Maurice's case should be investigatedwithout the delay of an hour, and, so far as it could then and there bedone, it was investigated immediately on his return to the Château. Hefirst examined Baron von Bulow's original despatch, and all my father'sminutes of matters relating to the prisoner, including a statement writtenimmediately after the departure of a stranger calling himself the Count vonRettel, and detailing from memory, very circumstantially and fully, thesubstance of a certain conversation to which I had been accidentally awitness, and which I have myself recorded elsewhere. 

The King, on reading this statement, was observed to be greatly disturbed. He questioned my father minutely as to the age, complexion, height, andgeneral appearance of the said Count von Rettel, and with his own handnoted down my father's replies on the back of my father's manuscript. Thisdone, His Majesty desired that the man Hartmann should be brought beforehim. 

But Hartmann was nowhere to be found. His room was empty. His bed had notbeen slept in. He had disappeared, in short, as completely as if he hadnever dwelt within the precincts of the Château. 

It was found, on more particular inquiry being made, that he had not beenseen since the previous evening. Overwhelmed with terror, and perhaps withremorse, he had rushed out of Monsieur Maurice's presence, never toreturn. It was supposed that he had then immediately gathered together allthat belonged to him, and had taken advantage of the bustle and confusionconsequent on the King's arrival, to leave Brühl in one of the returncarriages or fourgons that had brought the royal party from Cologne. I amnot aware that anything more was ever seen or heard of him; or that anyactive search for him was judicially instituted either then, or at anyother time. But he might easily have been pursued, and taken, and dealtwith according to the law, without our being any the wiser at Brühl. 

Hartmann being gone, the King then sent for the prisoner, and MonsieurMaurice, for the first time in many weeks, left his own rooms, and wasbrought round to the state-apartments. Seeing so many persons about; seeingalso the flowers and flags upon the walls, he seemed surprised, but saidnothing. Being brought into the royal presence, however, he appeared atonce to recognise the King. He bowed profoundly, and a faint flush was seento come into his face. He then cast a rapid glance round the room, as if tosee who else was present; bowed also (but less profoundly) to my father, who was standing behind the King's chair; and waited to be spoken to. 

"Vous êtes Français, Monsieur?" said the King, addressing him in French, ofwhich language my father understood only a few words. 

"Je suis Français, votre Majesté, " replied Monsieur Maurice. 

"Comment!" said the King, still in French. "Our person, then, is notunknown to you?"

"I have repeatedly enjoyed the honour of being in your Majesty's presence, "replied Monsieur Maurice, respectfully. 

Being then asked where, and on what occasion, my father understood him tosay that he had seen his Majesty at Erfurt during the great meeting of theSovereigns under Napoleon the First, and again at the Congress of Vienna;and also that he had, at that time, occupied some important office, such, perhaps, as military secretary, about the person of the Emperor. The Kingthen proceeded to question him on matters relating to his imprisonment andhis previous history, to all of which Monsieur Maurice seemed to reply atsome length, and with great earnestness of manner. Of these explanations, however, my father's imperfect knowledge of the language enabled him tocatch only a few words here and there. 

Presently, in the midst of a somewhat lengthy statement, Monsieur Mauricepronounced the name of Baron von Bulow. Hereupon the King checked him by agesture; desired all present to withdraw; caused the door to be closed; andcarried on the rest of the examination in private. By and by, after thelapse of nearly three quarters of an hour, my father was recalled, and anofficer in waiting was despatched to Monsieur Maurice's rooms to fetch whatwas left of the bottle of Seltzer-water, which Monsieur Maurice had himselflocked up in the sideboard the night before. 

The King then asked if there was any scientific man in Brühl capable ofanalysing the liquid; to which my father replied that no such person couldbe found nearer than Cologne or Bonn. Hereupon a dog was brought in fromthe stables, and, having been made to swallow about a quarter of a pint ofthe Seltzer-water, was presently taken with convulsions, and died on thespot. 

The King then desired that the body of the dog, and all that yet remainedin the bottle should be despatched to the Professor of Chemistry at Bonn, for immediate examination. 

This done, he turned to Monsieur Maurice, and said in German, so that allpresent might hear and understand:--

"Monsieur, so far as we have the present means of judging, you havesuffered an illegal and unjust imprisonment, and a base attempt has beenmade upon your life. You appear to be the victim of a foul conspiracy, andit will be our first care to sift that conspiracy to the bottom. In themeanwhile, we restore your liberty, requiring only your _paroled'honneur_, as a gentleman, a soldier, and a Frenchman, to presentyourself at Berlin, if summoned, at any time required within the next threemonths. "

Monsieur Maurice bowed, laid his hand upon his heart, and said:--

"I promise it, your Majesty, on my word of honour as a gentleman, asoldier, and a Frenchman. "

"You are probably in need of present funds, " the King then said; "and ifso, our Secretary shall make you out an order on the Treasury for fivehundred thalers. "

"Believing myself to be beggared of all I once possessed, I gratefullyaccept your Majesty's bounty, " replied Monsieur Maurice. 

The King then held out his hand for Monsieur Maurice to kiss, which he didon bended knee, and so went out from the royal presence, a free man. 

Half an hour later, he and I were strolling hand in hand under the trees. His step was slow, and the hand that held mine had grown sadly thin andtransparent. 

"Let us sit here awhile, and rest, " he said, as we came to the bench by thefountain. 

I reminded him that we had sat and rested in the same spot the very lasttime we walked together. 

"Ay, " he replied, with a sigh. "I was stronger then. "

"You will get strong again, now that you are free, " I said. 

"Perhaps--if liberty, like most earthly blessings, has not come too late. "

"Too late for what?"

"For enjoyment--for use--for everything. My friends believe me dead; myplace in the life of the world is filled up; my very name is by this timeforgotten. I am as one shipwrecked on the great ocean, and cast upon aforeign shore. "

"Are you--are you going away soon?" I said, almost in a whisper. 

"Yes, " he said, "I go to-morrow. "

"And you will--never--come back again?" I faltered. 

"Heaven forbid!" he said quickly. Then, remembering how that answer wouldgrieve me, he added; "but I will never forget thee, petite. Never, while Ilive. "

"But--but if I never see you any more". . . . 

Monsieur Maurice drew my head to his shoulder, and kissed my wet eyes. 

"Tush! that cannot, shall not be, " he said, caressingly. "Some day, perhaps, I may win back that old home by the sea of which I have so oftentold thee, little one; and then thou shalt come and visit me. "

"Shall I?" I said, wistfully. "Shall I indeed?"

And he said--"Ay, indeed. "

But I felt, somehow, that it would never come to pass. 

After this, we got up and walked on again, very silently; he thinking ofthe new life before him; I, of the sorrow of parting. By-and-by, a suddenrecollection flashed upon me. 

"But, Monsieur Maurice, " I exclaimed, "who was the brown man that stoodbehind your chair last night, and what has become of him?"

Monsieur Maurice turned his face away. 

"My dear little Gretchen, " he said, hastily, "there was no brown man. Heexisted in your imagination only. "

"But I saw him!"

"You fancied you saw him. The room was dark. You were half asleep in theeasy chair--half asleep, and half dreaming. "

"But Hartmann saw him!"

"A wicked man fears his own shadow, " said Monsieur Maurice, gravely. "Hartmann saw nothing but the reflection of his crime upon the mirror ofhis conscience. "

I was silenced, but not convinced. Some minutes later, having thought itover, I returned to the charge. 

"But, Monsieur Maurice, " I said, "it is not the first time he has beenhere. "

"Who? The King?"

"No--the brown man. "

Monsieur Maurice frowned. 

"Nay, nay, " he said, impatiently, "prithee, no more of the brown man. 'Tisa folly, and I dislike it. "

"But he was here in the park the night you tried to run away, " I said, persistently. "He saved your life by knocking up the musket that waspointed at your head!"

Pale as he always was, Monsieur Maurice turned paler still at these wordsof mine. His very lips whitened. 

"What is that you say?" he asked, stopping short and laying his hand uponmy shoulder. 

And then I repeated, word for word, all that I had heard the soldierssaying that night under the corridor window. When I had done, he took offhis hat and stood for a moment as if in prayer, silent and bare-headed. 

"If it be so, " he said presently, "if such fidelity can indeed survive thegrave--then not once, but thrice. . . . Who knows? Who can tell?"

He was speaking to himself. I heard the words, and I remembered them; but Idid not understand them till long after. 

The King left Brühl that same afternoon _en route_ forEhrenbreitstein, and Monsieur Maurice went away the next morning in apost-chaise and pair, bound for Paris. He gave me, for a farewell gift, hisprecious microscope and all his boxes of slides, and he parted from me withmany kisses; but there was a smile on his face as he got into the carriage, and something of triumph in the very wave of his hand as he drove away. 

Alas! how could it be otherwise? A prisoner freed, an exile returning tohis country, how should he not be glad to go, even though one little heartshould be left to ache or break in the land of the stranger?

I never saw him again; never--never--never. He wrote now and then to myfather, but only for a time; perhaps as many as six letters during three orfour years--and then we heard from him no more. To these letters he gave usno opportunity of replying, for they contained no address; and although wehad reason to believe that he was a man of family and title, he neversigned himself by any other name than that by which we had known him. 

We did hear, however, (I forget now through what channel) of the suddendisgrace and banishment of His Majesty's Minister of War, the Baron vonBulow. Respecting the causes of his fall there were many vague andcontradictory rumours. He had starved to death a prisoner of war and forcedhis widow into a marriage with himself. He had sold State secrets to theFrench. He had been over to Elba in disguise, and had there heldtreasonable intercourse with the exiled Emperor, before his return toFrance in 1815. He had attempted to murder, or caused to be murdered, thewitnesses of his treachery. He had forged the King's signature. He hadtampered with the King's servants. He had been guilty, in short, of everycrime, social and political, that could be laid to the charge of a fallenfavourite. 

Knowing what we knew, it was not difficult to disentangle a thread of truthhere and there, or to detect under the most extravagant of these fictions, a substratum of fact. Among other significant circumstances, my father, chancing one day to see a portrait of the late minister in a shop-window atCologne, discovered that his former visitor, the Count von Rettel, and theBaron von Bulow were one and the same person. He then understood why theKing had questioned him so minutely with regard to this man's appearance, and shuddered to think how deadly that enmity must have been which couldbring him in person upon so infamous an errand. 

And here all ended. The guilty and the innocent vanished alike from thescene, and we at least, in our remote home on the Rhenish border, heard ofthem no more. 

Monsieur Maurice never knew that I had been in any way instrumental inbringing his case before the King. He took his freedom as the fulfillmentof a right, and dreamed not that his little Gretchen had pleaded for him. But that he should know it, mattered not at all. He had his liberty, andwas not that enough?

Enough for me, for I loved him. Ay, child as I was, I loved him; loved himdeeply and passionately--to my cost--to my loss--to my sorrow. An old, oldwound; but I shall carry the scar to my grave!

And the brown man?

Hush! a strange feeling of awe and wonder creeps upon me to this day, whenI remember those bright eyes glowing through the dusk, and the swift handthat seized the poisoned draught and dashed it on the ground. What of thatfaithful Ali, who went forward to meet the danger alone, and was snatchedaway to die horribly in the jungle? I can but repeat his master's words. Ican but ask myself "Does such fidelity indeed survive the grave? Who knows?Who can tell?"