"Faith. I know not any young lady in your part of France who has a right to glory in my personal appearance, even if I were an Apollo,—who, by the way, is not represented with moustaches. But I believe I know who this girl may be,—I have met such a one in Paris, and avoided her as a pert little minx. As for your folly, as you call it, it was no more foolish than many a thing I have done."

He had the breeding not to add, "At your age," and I loved him for that. He and his men now set out upon their return to the farmstead, and my father and I, after devising a more comfortable couch for the Countess just within the open doorway of the tower, slept and watched by turns outside.

In the morning the Countess, partaking of more food, was in better strength and spirits, and had the curiosity to ask how my father came to be there. In telling her, I broke the news of the Count's death. For a moment she was startled, and then pity showed itself in her eyes and words,—pity for the man who had been swayed by such passions and delusions, and who had died in his sin with none else to shed a tear for him. The Captain's death, of which I next informed her, did not move her as much.

The turn of affairs caused a change of plan. She now resolved (as I had foreseen) to return to Lavardin and do such honour to her husband's memory as she might. Though his estates would probably, in all the circumstances, be adjudged forfeit to the Crown, some provision would doubtless be made for his widow. In any case, she might be sure of every courtesy from the officer in command of the guardsmen now occupying the chateau for the King, and there were certain jewels, apparel, and other possessions of her own which could not be withheld from her.

In the afternoon, when Brignan de Brignan and his comrades reappeared, the Countess was able to ride: and that evening we were all in Bonneval. Monsieur de Brignan had taken possession of several things found in an iron-bound chest where Captain Ferragant had kept his treasures. Among others were two papers stolen from me by the robbers,—the incriminating fragment of a letter to the Count, and the note from the Countess which I had found upon Monsieur de Merri. The former I destroyed, at the fire in the inn kitchen: the latter I kept, and keep to this day. Besides these, there were my purse; a quantity of gold, out of which I repaid myself the amount I had been robbed of; and the two keys, which I subsequently restored to the Chateau de Lavardin, whence they had come.

We stayed the night at Bonneval. The next day the guardsmen started for Paris, and our party of three for Montoire. As I took my leave of Brignan de Brignan before the inn gate, I noticed that his moustaches had undergone a diminution: indeed they now extended no further than his lips. I supposed he had decided not to be distinguished by such marks again. He expressed a hope of renewing acquaintance with me in Paris, and rode off. The Countess, my father, and I turned our faces toward Montoire, the Countess being now once more on Hugues's horse, which I had left for a time at Bonneval. We had not gone very far, when a man galloped after us, handed me a packet, and rode back as hastily as he had come. I had scarce time to recognize him as a valet attached to the party of guardsmen.

I opened the packet, and found a piece of paper, to which two wisps of hair were fastened by a thread, and on which was written in a large, dashing hand:

"Behold my moustaches. Brignan de Brignan."

And so, after all, I might keep my promise to Mlle. Celeste!



CHAPTER XIX.

AFTERWARDS

Two days later we arrived at Hugues's house, and were received with great joy by him and Mathilde. Here the Countess, now happily improved in health, resumed the attire of her sex, which she had there put off. My father then accompanied her to the Chateau de Lavardin, and made her known to the guardsman in command, by whom she was treated with the utmost consideration. With Mathilde to attend her, she remained a few days at the chateau, and then removed with her personal possessions to the house of Hugues, whose marriage to Mathilde was no longer delayed.

But meanwhile my father and I stayed only a day at Montoire, lodging at the inn there. I did not go to the chateau, but my father took thither the two keys, and brought away my sword and dagger, which had been hanging undisturbed in the hall. My farewell to the Countess was spoken in front of Hugues's gate when she started thence for the chateau, and not much was said, for my father and Hugues were there, as well as Mathilde, and the horses were waiting. But something was looked, and never did I cease to carry in my heart the tender and solicitous expression of her sweet eyes as they rested on me for a silent moment ere she turned away.

My father and I, on our homeward journey, stopped at La Fleche and ascertained that Monsieur de Merri's relations had learned of his fate and taken all care for the repose of his body and soul. It appeared that he lived at Orleans, and was used to visit cousins in Brittany: thus, then, had he chanced to stop at Montoire and fall in with the Count de Lavardin. Alas! poor young gentleman!

And now we arrived home, to the great relief of my mother; and Blaise Tripault would hardly speak to my father or me, for envy of the adventures we had passed through without him. But he spread great reports of what I had done,—or rather what I had not done, for he made me a chief hero in the destruction of the band of robbers. But this unmerited fame scarcely annoyed me at all, for my thoughts were elsewhere, and I was restless and melancholy. In a few days I resolved to go to Paris,—by way of Montoire. But before I started, I took a walk one fine afternoon along the stream that bounded our estate: and, as I had expected, there was Mlle. Celeste on the other side, with her drowsy old guardian. She blushed and looked embarrassed, and I wondered why I had ever thought her charming. Her self-confidence returned in a moment, and she greeted me with her old sauciness, though it seemed a trifle forced:

"Ah, Monsieur, so you have come back without going to Paris after all, I hear."

"Yes, Mademoiselle," I answered coldly. "But I have taken your advice and looked a little into the eyes of danger; and I find it does make a difference in one."

"Oh, yes: I believe you fought a duel, and were present when some highway robbers were taken; and now you have come back to rest on your laurels."

"No; I came back to give you these, as I promised." And I threw her the packet containing the moustaches of Brignan de Brignan. She opened it, and regarded the contents with amazement. I laughed.

She looked at me now with real wonder, and I perceived I had grown several inches in her estimation.

"But don't think I took them against his will," said I. "I admit I never could have done that. He gave me them in jest, and the proudest claim I can make in regard to him is that he honours me with his friendship. Good day, Mademoiselle."

I came away, leaving her surprised and discomfited, for which I was not sorry. She had expected to find me still her slave, and to expend her pertness on me as before: though she might have known that if danger would make a man of me, it would give me a man's eyes to see the difference between a real woman and a scornful miss.

I went to Paris, careful this time to avoid conflict with bold-speaking young gentlemen at inns; and on the way I had one precious hour at Hugues's house, wherein—upon his marriage to Mathilde—the Countess had established herself, to the wonder of all who heard of it. She continued to lodge there, her affairs turning out so that she was able to repay Hugues liberally. She occupied herself in good works for the poor about Montoire, and so two years passed, each day making her happier and more beautiful. Many times I went between La Tournoire and Paris,—always by way of Montoire. In Paris I saw much of Brignan de Brignan, whose moustaches had soon grown back to their old magnitude. And one day whom should I meet in the Rue St. Honore but that excellent spy of Sully's, Monsieur de Pepicot?

I begged him to come into a tavern. "There is something you owe me," said I, when we were seated; "an account of how you got out of the Chateau de Lavardin that night without leaving any trace."

"It was nothing," said the long-nosed man meekly. "I found an empty room with a mullioned window, on the floor beneath ours, and let myself down to the terrace with a knotted rope I had brought in my portmanteau."

"But I never heard that any rope was found."

"I had passed it round the inside of the window-mullion and lowered both ends to the ground, attached to my portmanteau. In descending I kept hold of both parts. When I was down, I had only to release one part and pull the rope after me. I found a gardener's tool-shed, and in it some poles for trellis-work. I placed two of these side by side against the garden wall, at the postern door, and managed to clamber to the top."

"But I heard of nothing being found against the wall."

"Oh, I drew the poles up after me, and also my portmanteau, by means of the rope, which I had fastened to them and to my waist. I let them down to a plank which crossed the moat there, as I had observed before ever entering the chateau. I dropped after them, and was lucky enough to avoid falling into the moat. I hid the poles among the bushes: not that it mattered, but I thought it would amuse the Count to conjecture how I had got away. One likes to give people something to think of.—As for my horse, I had seen to it that he was kept in an unlocked penthouse.—Ah, well! that Count thought he was a great chess-player." And Monsieur de Pepicot smiled faintly and shook his head.

At the prospect of war, I joined the army assembling at Chalons, but the lamentable murder of the King put an end to his great plans, and I resumed my former way, swinging like a pendulum between Paris and La Tournoire. One soft, pink evening in the second summer after my adventure at Lavardin, I was privileged to walk alone with the Countess in the meadows behind Hugues's mill. Health and serenity had raised her beauty to perfection, and there was no trace of her sorrows but the humble dignity and brave gentleness of her look and manner.

"You are the loveliest woman in the world," I said, without any sort of warning. "Ah, Louise—surely I may call you that now—how I adore you! I cannot any longer keep back what is in my heart. See yonder where the sun has set—that is where La Tournoire is. It seems to beckon us—not me alone, but us—together. When will you come?—when may I take you to my father and mother, and hear them say I could not have found a sweeter wife in all France?"

Trembling, she raised her moist eyes to mine, and said in a voice like a low sigh:

"Ah, Henri, if it were possible! But you forget the barrier: we are not of the same religion. I know your mother changed her faith for your father's sake; but I could never do so."

"But what if I changed for your sake?" I said, taking her hand.

"Henri! will you do that?" she cried, with a joy that told all I wished to know.

In truth, I had often thought of going over to the national form of worship. As soon, therefore, as I got to La Tournoire after this meeting, I opened the matter to my father.

"Why," said he, "I think it a sensible resolve. The times are changed; since King Henri's death, there is no longer any hope of us Huguenots maintaining a balance. As a party, we have done our work, and are doomed to pass away. Those who persist will only keep up a division in the nation, from which they can gain nothing, and which will be a source of useless troubles. As for the religious side of the question, some people prefer artificial forms of expression, some do not. It is a matter of externals: and if one must needs subscribe to a few doctrines he does not believe, who is harmed by that? These things are much to women, and we, to whom they are less, can afford to yield. I often fancy your mother would like to go back to the faith of her childhood,—and if she ever expresses the wish, I will not hinder her. When I married her, all was different: I could not have become a Catholic then. Nor indeed can I do so now. Blaise Tripault and I are too old for new tricks: we must not change our colours at this late day: we are survivals from a bygone state of things. But you, my son, belong to a new France. Our great Henri said. 'Surely Paris is worth a mass': and I dare say this lady is as much to you as Paris was to him."

So the Church gained a convert and I a wife. Hugues and Mathilde came to live on our estate. And Mlle. Celeste, in course of time, was married to a raw young Gascon as lean as a lath, as poor as a fiddler, and as thirsty as a Dutchman, but with moustaches twice as long as those of Brignan de Brignan.

THE END.



Works of Robert Neilson Stephens

An Enemy to the King

The Continental Dragoon

The Road to Paris

A Gentleman Player

Philip Winwood

Captain Ravenshaw

The Mystery of Murray Davenport

The Bright Face of Danger



L. C. Page and Company

The Mystery of Murray Davenport.

By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of "An Enemy to the King," "Philip Winwood," etc.

In his latest novel, Mr. Stephens has made a radical departure from the themes of his previous successes. Turning from past days and distant scenes, he has taken up American life of to-day as his new field, therein proving himself equally capable. Original in its conception, striking in its psychologic interest, and with a most perplexing love problem, "The Mystery of Murray Davenport" is the most vital and absorbing of all Mr. Stephens's novels, and will add not a little to his reputation.

"This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done. Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of this praise, which is generous."—Buffalo News.

"Mr. Stephens won a host of friends through his earlier volumes, but we think he will do still better work in his new field if the present volume is a criterion."—N. Y. Com. Advertiser.

The Daughter of the Dawn.

By R. HODDER.

This is a powerful story of adventure and mystery, its scene New Zealand. In sustained interest and novel plot, it recalls Rider Haggard's "King Solomon's Mines," and "She" but the reader will find an added interest due to the apparent reality with which the author succeeds in investing the sensational incidents of his plot.

The Spoilsmen.

By ELLIOTT FLOWER, author of "Policeman Flynn," etc.

This is a story of municipal politics, depicting conditions common to practically all large cities. The political methods employed, however, are in most instances taken from the actual experiences of men who have served the public in some capacity or other, and the stories told of some of the characters are literally true. The love interest centres around a girl of high ideals, who inspires a wealthy young man to enter the local campaign.

"The best one may hear of 'The Spoilsmen' will be none too good. As a wide-awake, snappy, brilliant political story it has few equals, its title-page being stamped with that elusive mark, 'success.' One should not miss a word of a book like this at a time like this and in a world of politics like this."—Boston Transcript.

"...It ought to do good. The world of municipal politics is put before the reader in a striking and truthful manner; and the sources of evil that afflict the government of our cities are laid bare in a manner that should arrest the attention of every honest man who wishes to purge and cleanse our local governments. It illustrates, too, very forcibly, how difficult a work it is to accomplish such municipal reform, and how useless it is to attempt it without united and persistent effort on the part of those who should be most interested."—Grover Cleveland.

A Daughter of Thespis.

By JOHN D. BARRY, author of "The Intriguers," "Mademoiselle Blanche," etc.

The author's experiences as a dramatic critic have enabled him to write with authority on the ever fascinating theme of stage life. From "the front," in the wings, and on the boards—from all these varying points of view, is told this latest story of player folk—an absorbing tale.

"This story of the experiences of Evelyn Johnson, actress, may be praised just because it is so true and so wholly free from melodrama and the claptrap which we have come to think inseparable from any narrative which has to do with theatrical experiences."—Professor Harry Thurston Peck, of Columbia University.

Prince Hagen.

By UPTON SINCLAIR, author of "King Midas," etc.

In this book, Mr. Sinclair has written a satire of the first order—one worthy to be compared with Swift's biting tirades against the follies and abuses of mankind.

The scheme of the book is as delightful as it is original—Prince Hagen, son of that Hagen who killed Siegfried, grandson of Alberich, King of the Nibelungs, comes to this earth from Nibelheim, for a completion of his education, and it is the effect of our modern morality on a brilliant and unscrupulous mind which forms the basis of Mr. Sinclair's story. Prince Hagen's first exploits are at school; then in the thick of New York's corrupt politics as a boss. Later, after he has inherited the untold wealth of the Nibelungs, he tastes the society life of the metropolis.

As a story simply, the book is thoroughly entertaining, with a climax of surprising power; but, as a satire, it will live.

Earth's Enigmas.

By CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of "The Kindred of the Wild," "The Heart of the Ancient Wood," etc.

"It will rank high among collections of short stories.... His prose art, too, has reached a high degree of perfection.... In 'Earth's Enigmas' is a wider range of subject than in the 'Kindred of the Wild.'"—Review from advance sheets of the illustrated edition by Tiffany Blake in the Chicago Evening Post.

"Throughout the volume runs that subtle questioning of the cruel, predatory side of nature which suggests the general title of the book. In certain cases it is the picture of savage nature ravening for food—for death to preserve life; in others it is the secret symbolism of woods and waters prophesying of evils and misadventures to come. All this does not mean, however, that Mr. Roberts is either pessimistic or morbid—it is nature in his books after all, wholesome in her cruel moods as in her tender."—The New York Independent.

The Silent Maid.

By FREDERIC W. PANGBORN.

A dainty and delicate legend of the brave days of old, of sprites and pixies, of trolls and gnomes, of ruthless barons and noble knights. "The Silent Maid" herself, with her strange bewitchment and wondrous song, is equalled only by Undine in charm and mystery. The tale is told in that quaint diction which chronicles "The Forest Lovers," and in which Mr. Pangborn, although a new and hitherto undiscovered writer, is no less an artist than Mr. Hewlett.

The Golden Kingdom.

By ANDREW BALFOUR, author of "Vengeance is Mine," "To Arms!" etc.

This is a story of adventure on land and sea, beginning in England, and ending in South Africa, in the last days of the seventeenth century. The scheme of the tale at once puts the reader in mind of Stevenson's "Treasure Island," and with that augury of a good story, he at once continues from the mysterious advent of Corkran the Coxswain into the quiet English village, through scenes of riot, slave-trading, shipwreck, and savages to the end of all in the "Golden Kingdom" with its strange denizens. The character of Jacob the Blacksmith, big of body and bigger of heart, ever ready in time of peril, will alone hold his attention with a strong grip.

The Promotion of the Admiral.

By MORLEY ROBERTS, author of "The Colossus," "The Fugitives," "Sons of Empire," etc.

We consider ourselves fortunate in being able to announce this latest novel by Mr. Morley Roberts, who has such a wide circle of readers and admirers. This volume contains half a dozen stories of sea life,—fresh, racy, and bracing,—some humorous, some thrilling, all laid in America,—a new field for Mr. Roberts,—and introduces a unique creation, "Shanghai Smith," of "'Frisco," kidnapper of seamen, whose calling and adventures have already interested and amused all readers of The Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post.

The Schemers.

A TALE OF MODERN LIFE.

By EDWARD F. HARKINS, author of "Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have Written Famous Books," etc.

A story of a new and real phase of social life in Boston, skilfully and daringly handled. There is plenty of life and color abounding, and a diversity of characters—shop-girls, society belles, men about town, city politicians, and others. The various schemers and their schemes will be followed with interest—and there will be some discerning readers who may claim to recognize in certain points of the story certain recent happenings in the shopping and the society circles of the Hub.

The Captain's Wife.

By W. CLARK RUSSELL, author of "The Wreck of the Grosvenor," "The Mate of the Good Ship York,"' etc.

The customary epithets applied to nautical fiction are quite incommensurate with the excellence of Mr. Clark Russell's narrative powers, and these are thoroughly at their best in "The Captain's Wife." "The Captain's Wife" is the story of a voyage, and its romantic interest hinges on the stratagem of the captain's newly wedded wife in order to accompany him on his expedition for the salvage of a valuable wreck. The plot thickens so gradually that a less competent novelist would be in danger of letting the reader's attention slip. But the climax of Benson's conspiracy to remove the captain, and carry off the wife, to whom his lawless passion aspires, is invested with the keenest excitement.

The Story of the Foss River Ranch.

By RIDGWELL CULLOM.

The scene of this story is laid in Canada, not in one of the great cities, but in that undeveloped section of the great Northwest where to-day scenes are being enacted similar to those enacted fifty years ago during the settlement of the great American West. The story is intense, with a sustained and well-developed plot, and will thus appeal to the reading public.

The Interference of Patricia.

By LILIAN BELL, author of "Hope Loring," "Abroad with the Jimmies," etc. With a frontispiece from drawing by Frank T. Merrill.

This story adds not a little to the author's reputation as a teller of clever tales. It is of the social life of to-day in Denver—that city of gold and ozone—and deals of that burg's peculiarities with a keen and flashing satire. The character of the heroine, Patricia, will hold the reader by its power and brilliancy. Impetuous, capricious, and wayward, with a dominating personality and spirit, she is at first a careless girl, then develops into a loyal and loving woman, whose interference saves the honor of both her father and lover. The love theme is in the author's best vein, the character sketches of the magnates of Denver are amusing and trenchant, and the episodes of the plot are convincing, sincere, and impressive.

A Book Of Girls.

By LILIAN BELL, author of "Hope Loring," "Abroad with the Jimmies," etc. With a frontispiece.

It is quite universally recognized that Lilian Bell has done for the American girl in fiction what Gibson has done for her in art—that Lilian Bell has crystallized into a distinct type all the peculiar qualities that have made the American girl unique among the women of the world. Consequently, a book with a Bell heroine is sure of a hearty welcome. What, therefore, can be said of this book, which contains no less than four types of witching and buoyant femininity? There are four stories of power and dash in this volume: "The Last Straw," "The Surrender of Lapwing," "The Penance of Hedwig," and "Garret Owen's Little Countess." Each one of these tells a tale full of verve and thrill, each one has a heroine of fibre and spirit.

Count Zarka.

By SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY, author of "The Red Chancellor."

"The Red Chancellor" was considered by critics, as well as by the reading public, one of the most dramatic novels of last year. In his new book, Sir William Magnay has continued in the field in which he has been so successful. "Count Zarka" is a strong, quick-moving romance of adventure and political intrigue, the scene being laid in a fictitious kingdom of central Europe, under which thin disguise may be recognized one of the Balkan states. The story in its action and complications reminds one strongly of "The Prisoner of Zenda," while the man[oe]uvring of Russia for the control in the East strongly suggests the contemporary history of European politics. The character of the mysterious Count Zarka, hero and villain, is strongly developed, and one new in fiction.

The Golden Dwarf.

By R. NORMAN SILVER, author of "A Daughter of Mystery," etc.

Mr. Silver needs no introduction to the American public. His "A Daughter of Mystery" was one of the most realistic stories of modern London life that has recently appeared. "The Golden Dwarf" is such another story, intense and almost sensational. Mr. Silver reveals the mysterious and gruesome beneath the commonplace in an absorbing manner. The "Golden Dwarf" himself, his strange German physician, and the secret of the Wyresdale Tower are characters and happenings which will hold the reader from cover to cover.

Alain Tanger's Wife.

By J. H. YOXALL, author of "The Rommany Stone," etc.

A spirited story of political intrigue in France. The various dissensions of the parties claiming political supremacy, and "the wheels within wheels" that move them to their schemes are caustically and trenchantly revealed. A well known figure in the military history of France plays a prominent part in the plot—but the central figure is that of the American heroine—loyal, intense, piquant, and compelling.

The Diary of a Year.

PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. Edited by Mrs. CHARLES H. E. BROOKFIELD.

The writer of this absorbing study of emotions and events is gifted with charming imagination and an elegant style. The book abounds in brilliant wit, amiable philosophy, and interesting characterizations. The "woman of the world" reveals herself as a fascinating, if somewhat reckless, creature, who justly holds the sympathies of the reader.

The Red Triangle. Being some further chronicles of Martin Hewitt, investigator.

By ARTHUR MORRISON, author of "The Hole in the Wall," "Tales of Mean Streets," etc.

This is a genuine, straightforward detective story of the kind that keeps the reader on the qui vive. Martin Hewitt, investigator, might well have studied his methods from Sherlock Holmes, so searching and successful are they. His adventures take him at times to the slums of London, amid scenes which recall Mr. Morrison's already noted "The Hole in the Wall." As a combination of criminal and character studies, this book is very successful.

COMMONWEALTH SERIES No. 7.

The Philadelphians:

AS SEEN BY A NEW YORK WOMAN.

By KATHARINE BINGHAM. (Pseud.)

A bright and breezy tale of a charming New York woman, whose wedded lot is twice cast in Philadelphia. The family of her first husband committed the unpardonable sin of living north of Market Street; that of her second husband resided south of that line of demarcation. She is thus enabled to speak whereof she knows concerning the conventions, and draws the characteristics of life in the Quaker city, as well as the foibles of the "first families" with a keen and caustic, though not unkindly, pen.

THE END