A knock interrupted. It was the concierge, who handed him a card. Without looking at it, Lecour replied—

"Tell him I am ill and cannot be seen."

The words upon the card might well have produced his answer. When the door was shut he glanced at it, started, and held it in his hands, fascinated by apprehension. It read—

"Le Marquis de Chartier de Lotbiniere."

In the name he recognised that of his father's patron.

"It is clear I must leave this place," thought he; and then it flashed upon him that de Lotbiniere must have intended to call on the other Repentigny.

"Yes, he would lodge here. Without doubt the reason this is de Bailleul's resort is that it is a meeting-place for Canadians."

Putting on his hat and cloak he went down to the entrance, and in passing out said as if casually to the concierge—

"Has the Marquis de Repentigny entered yet?"

"Yes, sir," the man returned.

Germain started out into the night, not knowing where to go. It was about nine o'clock and dark overhead, but the narrow towering streets of old Paris possessed a rude system of lighting and the life at least of a great city, so that he felt less lonely than in his rooms, and walked on and on for several hours.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE EXECUTIONER OF DESTINY

Lorgnette in hand, Cyrene was sitting in the music chamber of the Hotel de Noailles, scanning the bars of a sheet of music sent her by her suitor. Near by was the harpsichord on which she was about to try it, when it seemed to her that a screen beside her trembled. Glancing for an instant at it she was reassured. Almost immediately, however, it again shook and fixed her attention, but after watching it for a few moments and seeing no repetition, she once more turned away, satisfied that she had been mistaken. Then suddenly she became aware that a man was standing beside her, sprang to her feet and would have screamed had his attitude not been so deferential.

He was dressed entirely in black, of the best materials and Paris cut; his age was over fifty, and his features well made, but pinched and of an ashen tint. His expression of strange woe roused her sympathy and quieted her fears.

"Who are you?" she said.

He took no notice of her words.

"Are you la Montmorency," he asked, "the fiancee of the Guardsman?"

"This is a strange question," she exclaimed. "How does it concern you, sir?"

"Deeply, deeply. These are matters of life and death."

"What do you mean?"

"Do not fear, your lover is safe. I could have killed him, but did not."

She became roused and agitated, and the thought flashed upon her that the man might be a maniac.

"You would not," she said, trying to reason with him, "have injured anyone so good and inoffensive as Monsieur de Repentigny?"

"Repentigny!" he cried. "It is because he bore that name that I tracked him to Troyes. It was a Repentigny who slew my father, and blessed was the light of the street lamp which showed me your lover was none of that brood."

"You would have killed him, you say?"

"I was to do so, but it was by mistake."

"Who are you, then?" she inquired with the greatest earnestness.

"The Instrument of Vengeance. Do you hear it?" he continued, as if listening. "The Voice of Vengeance in the distance, approaching, approaching, calling, calling? Nearer, year by year, month by month, day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment, until when it reaches my side I shall slay my enemy. When he fled to the farthest Indies, there he found me; now he is in Paris, and finds me here; wherever he goes he has found me. He knows his fate. He knows that I am the Instrument of Vengeance, that a day shall come that has not come, that this hand is the hand of heaven, and this sword the sword of the Almighty."

"You say he slew your father?"

"Yes, thrust him through on the steps of our house—the House of the Golden Dog."

"What was your father's name?"

"The Bourgeois Philibert, of Quebec."

"And who do you say killed him?"

"Repentigny."

"But not my Germain!" she exclaimed eagerly and positively.

"No, he is none of that spawn of evil."

"You will bear him no ill-will at any time then?" she pleaded.

"On the contrary, he is now on my side. They are his enemies too."

"Who are his enemies?"

"The Repentignys; but fear not, Mademoiselle, he is far superior to them. He shall triumph and prevail, for I shall keep him, and heaven has appointed me its Instrument. Nothing they do can prevail against me and our side."

"Why do you say they are his enemies? They are not always enemies who carry the same name."

"Mademoiselle, I see you know not this name," he said with grave courtesy; "I see you know not this name—this name of sorrow, this name of blood—my father's blood—alas! alas! alas! alas!" and his voice trembled with infinite dolor.

"Oh, poor man," she cried, weeping. "I pity you."

He turned upon her a dazed glance, a glance out of a mind absorbed in an unspeakable grief, and returning into his absorption, left the room.

She had been so keenly excited from instant to instant by the statements of Philibert that she had not checked the interview. Apart from her pity for him, the safety of Germain was the single issue of her thoughts, and it was with alarm that she sat down and put together her impressions on that subject. The mixture of woe with triumph on Philibert's countenance affected her powerfully, and the words, "You know not this name of sorrow, this name of blood," troubled her. The vengeance, the killing, the family feud, to which he referred, what were they all? "Oh, Germain," she thought, continuing to weep, "some heavy cloud is hanging over you."

Meanwhile the scandal had spread to several circles in Versailles, and was lit upon by the Abbe Jude, who, too happy to contain himself, ran to Cyrene and invented an order to her from the Princess to attend in her chamber; and when he had led her into the presence of her Excellency, he addressed the latter—

"Madame has of course heard the new tale?" he said.

"Something fresh this morning, Abbe? Who does it concern?"

"Not the great Monsieur, the Prince, my lady, but a Monsieur of much nearer acquaintance."

"Indeed? Monsieur Who, then? How interesting! Make no delay."

"The difficulty precisely is to say Who, Madame; but it is he who calls himself Monsieur de Repentigny. There is in Paris at this very instant a real Monsieur de Repentigny—no relation to our one—who is publicly declaring our Canadian to have stolen his title, and to be nothing less than a cheat."

He gave a malicious look at Cyrene, who turned pale and caught at a chair. However, the great lady herself intervened.

"Stop, Abbe; stop, sir. This time you pass the bounds permitted you. How dare you come into the presence of a Princess inventing such slanderous monstrosities against your superior. A nephew, sir, of the Chevalier de Bailleul, acknowledged by him as such to myself in his own chateau, is above the aspersions of a contemptible plebeian. Let this be a lesson to you, and never dare again to enter my sight. Footmen, conduct him out of my presence and service. No reply! I am irrevocable in this."

"What is the commotion I heard?" exclaimed Madame l'Etiquette, entering just after the reader's expulsion.

The Princess told her of Jude's insolent assertion.

"It is a serious matter. As likely as not it is true," Madame said, and looked severely at Cyrene.

"I know it to be a falsehood," the latter retorted, with fiery quickness. "Those people are his enemies. I have it on the word of an honest man and a Canadian."



CHAPTER XXIV

A CURIOUS PROFESSION

It so happened that about midnight Germain crossed the Seine by the Petit-Pont, a bridge not so public as the Pont-Neuf, and, regardless of the robberies always occurring, plunged among the crooked streets of the Latin Quarter. He had not walked far before a carriage, driving swiftly away from a small lane or passage, attracted his notice. At the bottom of the passage was a door having a lamp over it; upon the lamp some letters and a device. He stopped and read—

"MTRE. GILLES, GENEALOGIST."

The street in which he stood was a small cross street. He walked on and left it, but the lamp, the inscription and the carriage haunted him like one of those things which so often takes part in our reasoning before we see its drift. All at once it became clear, he clutched at the hope, retraced his steps to the small street, arrived at the passage, and went up it to the door. The genealogist himself, a little red-faced man with an agreeable air, a brown periwig, and a smart suit of black Lyons' silk, was taking in his sign and preparing to put out the light in it.

"An instant, Monsieur Gilles," said Lecour, stopping him.

"With pleasure, sir," Gilles answered without surprise, and returning the lamp, opened the door, showing a narrow stair.

Germain mounted and passed into a chamber, whose furniture was of considerable elegance, and the gloom of which was relieved by a single wax candle on a brass-footed table.

On the table were a mass of parchments which the genealogist had been examining and tall cupboards, open drawers, and bookcases full of his library stood around. A host of old portraits of all kinds and sizes gave rich colour to the walls.

The stately manner of Germain caught his glance at once, and bowing deferentially he inquired the name.

"It does not matter," said Germain.

"A Normandy squire," thought the genealogist, from something in the accent. He invited his visitor to seat himself in the chair facing his table, and took his own seat at the opposite side.

"I am newly arrived at Court," said Germain. "What is the best way to become acquainted with the history of the great families?"

"Not in the least likely you come to me for that," thought the expert. "It is simple," said he aloud. "Read my Repertory of Genealogy, which is to be had for fifty livres of the bookseller Giraud, No. 79, Palais Royal, and which is the infallible standard upon the subject, and is read by the whole of the Court, the noblesse, the magistrature, and in general the French nation."

"Very well, I shall obtain it," answered Germain; "but can you now answer questions about some of the less conspicuous lines?"

"I have only, sir, to be told a name, and I guarantee for twenty livres to relate in written abstract the history of every branch of it which was ever noble. I also, for a fee, according to the difficulties, make a specialty of resuscitating genealogies which have been dimmed by lapse of time or by those misfortunes which often make it seem to the inexperienced that such blood is ignoble—an impression which is without question in itself the most deplorable misfortune of all in such cases. I have discovered barons in chair-menders, and viscounts in cheese-hawkers," and he looked at Germain cheerfully.

"Such things do not concern me," was the haughty reply. "I am interested in a family named Lecour. I desire an account of the titles now or heretofore possessed by persons of that name."

The professional consulted a register "L" on a shelf behind.

"The name is a common one, sir, yet the list is not long. Indeed so common is the name, and so short the list of its stocks of distinction that there have been but two. One is the well-known family of Amiens, the other is now obscure."

"What branch is the latter?"

"The LeCours de Lincy, formerly a conspicuous race in the annals of Poitou and very ancient. Their device: a golden lion rampant on an azure shield."

"A golden lion rampant on an azure shield," repeated Germain musing.

"By chance the last of the de Lincys is known to me, and sleeps not far from where we are sitting—a noble so old and poor that he never enjoys firewood, and apparently lives solely on the sight of his precious proofs of noblesse; a food which, excuse me, Monsieur, is, in my opinion, very innutritious."

A ray of hope crossed Germain's mind.

"Would he sell these proofs?"

The genealogist at once understood Germain's position, but he would take no mean advantage; he was honourable within his calling. He merely answered—

"No, sir."

"Could you not obtain copies?"

"For fifteen louis."

"Here they are," replied Lecour, opening his purse and handing over the gold.

The genealogist's ruddy face twinkled.

"Now," said Germain, "this gentleman of whom you spoke is my relative. I desire to see him."

"To some men," replied the other, "I would say Monsieur de Lincy is part of my professional plant, and I cannot give you the information. To you, sir, it shall be different, for I take you for a man of honour, and all I desire is your word that nothing will be done by you without payment of such fees as I may ask."

"Agreed," returned Germain, repressing his expectancy.

"Then you can be conducted to him in the morning, and it must be by myself, for otherwise he would not trust you. Will you accept a lodging with me, a plain room, but no worse than at an inn."

Lecour only too gladly accepted the refuge; but before retiring he said—

"My name is Lecour."

"I knew it," returned the genealogist. "Have no fear of my confidence. I am not like the vipers who throng my profession. To proceed a step further, I venture boldly the theory, sir, that you are the Monsieur Lecour de Repentigny about whose title there has just been some little question."

Germain's heart jumped, and he sat for a moment speechless.

"It is true," he said at last.

"You wish me to advise you?"

Lecour nodded.

"With my advice, then, the thing will be simple. First quit the name of Repentigny, which will always create jealousies. I leave to yourself the excuses you will make for having borne it—that you bought the seigniory of that name or that you possess another of the same appellation, or that it was very anciently a possession of your family. The armorials show there were LeCours de Tilly; there were also LeGardeurs de Tilly, related to the LeGardeurs de Repentigny. You might thus claim possible relationship. But, as I have said, I leave to yourself the choice of excuses on that point. Secondly, we must carry out your design of allying yourself with old de Lincy, who is in such horrible need of a friend, that it will be a benefit to you both; and thirdly, you must see to the correction of all marriage contracts, baptismal and death certificates, and other registers by the insertion of the noble appellation which will then belong to your family. This is your case in brief."

Lecour looked at him, heaving a deep breath of relief, and rising, allowed himself to be shown to the sleeping chamber.

When about to breakfast the next morning, on the rolls and wine sent up by the genealogist, he found a tiny package on his plate, opening which he saw a handsome old watch-seal fitted with a newly-cut stone in intaglio, showing a lion rampant on a shield.

The genealogist had had a jeweller cut on an old seal during the night the arms of the de Lincys.

Speculating much, but saying little in reply to Gille's garrulity, he set off with him to the old noble's attic. A voice, broken by asthma, feebly called upon them to enter, and Germain's eyes fell upon, lying on a tattered mattress by the window, the last wreck of a gentleman, with whom he instantly felt the greatest sympathy. The rotten wood floor and partitions of the room were bare of furniture except a worn box and half a dozen dingy oil portraits of ancestors. The occupant's features were pinched with sadness and starvation. His hair was white. He raised himself with dignity to a sitting position, however, and received them with a grave courtesy.

"Pardon us, Monsieur de Lincy!" the genealogist exclaimed; "I have made a discovery which will be so interesting to you that I have hastened to break it without waiting for the sun to rise higher."

"The hour is nothing," de Lincy replied; "I have always received visitors in bed."

"But not always relatives."

A lofty look passed over the other's face.

"I am the only de Lincy."

"Will Monsieur lend me his seal?" said Maitre Gilles to Lecour. Then, handing it to the de Lincy, he exclaimed, "Here is a discovery of mine!"

"What, are these my arms?" cried the old man.

"Yes, sir, preserved for generations in a distant colony by a branch that does you honour. Permit me, sir, to introduce you to your cousin, Monsieur LeCour de Lincy, of Canada, officer of the Bodyguard, and who longs to make the acquaintance of the head of his family."

De Lincy bowed ceremoniously, and, glancing again at the ring, examined it with avidity.

"The arms are those of my ancestors; and you say, sir, that this is an heirloom of your family in Canada."

Lecour nodded.

"Your name is really——"

"LeCour."

"Discovered to be your cousin by Maitre Gilles, the expert in genealogy, remember, Chevalier."

"You are very good, I admit," the old noble replied. "Yes, yes," he mused aloud on recovering, permitting his eyes to rest on Germain's face, "he resembles the portrait of my grandfather—that portrait on the right. There is a tradition that a lost branch was flourishing somewhere in distant countries. Maitre Gilles, under my pillow you will find the key of my box—my muniment chest. Please to open it and hand me the genealogical tree which is on the top of the parchments. Very good; here then is the branch of which I speak, the progeny of Hippolyte, lieutenant in the marine in 1683: it must be this line. The saints be praised that the grandeur of our fortunes still has so worthy a representative, and that I set my eyes once more upon a LeCour de Lincy. To you these precious portraits of our forefathers and the priceless titles to our nobility and to the ruins of our chateau shall descend. They shall not be lost, despised and scattered. O mon Dieu! I thank thee."

With tears he reached his arms to Germain and embraced him, and so strange is human nature that Germain, enclosed in that pathetic embrace, began to believe himself really a scion of the lost branch of the de Lincys, descendants of Hippolyte.

Gilles departed, Germain remained. He insisted on aiding the Chevalier to dress, and on supporting his trembling footsteps down the stairway and to the nearest cafe, where they fittingly celebrated the occasion. The Chevalier eagerly brought Germain back to look over the chest of documents, and gave him permission with joy to obtain authenticated copies, and on parting, towards the end of the day, actually pressed upon him one of those portraits, precious to him as his life-blood.



CHAPTER XXV

FACING THE MUSIC

Germain hastened back to Troyes, taking up Dominique on the way. It was evening when his coach brought him past the gate sentry and through the stray groups in the courtyard of the Quarters, so that he noticed nothing particular until he entered Collinot's office to report himself. The Adjutant received him with unusual stiffness. When he, soon after, descended in his uniform and mounted to take command of the change of sentries, the crisis arrived. A large, turbulent Guardsman refused to salute him. Germain stopped, marked the man, and ordered his arrest.

"You arrest me!" the private shouted, conscious of his equal rank with the officers of the ordinary army; "you reptile, you huckster's son! You order gentlemen about!—you, Lecour, the man of the stolen name!"

"Monsieur Brigadier, conduct this gentleman to the guardhouse," firmly ordered Lecour.

He did it with so much dignity, despite the whiteness of his face, that the Guardsmen—who had all been about to mutiny with their comrade—recognised their duty, and obeyed his further commands. Their hasty impression that the Canadian was an impostor was shaken by his manner, and they silently agreed to await developments.

Immediately this brief service—which he performed to the letter—was over, he changed costume quickly and walked into the card-room, where a large company, including several Guards from Chalons, were engaged at conversation and play. All eyes turned to him. He was seen to march straight to the centre, and to stand a moment, pale and determined, until all murmuring hushed.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I have just been insulted. I have been insulted, but not so much by the man who lies under arrest, as by him, unknown to me, who has been the cause of his offence. I am under no possible doubt that all you who are present have heard the malignant falsehoods which are being circulated about my origin within the past few days. Their author, I am informed, is one Lery, a native of my country, who has obtained in some way a position in the ranks of the company de Villeroy. I wish to proclaim that I am about to demand of him a just alternative—retraction or death."

"Bravo!" exclaimed a friendly voice—Grancey's. Germain had been listened to with breathless attention, and approval appeared on many countenances. His fellow-officers moved towards him. Even one of the Guardsmen from Chalons, of de Lery's regiment, swore the latter had no right to malign such a brave fellow.

"Adjutant de Collinot," he continued, "I appeal to you."

Collinot—the oracle of militarism—who was playing picquet, rose.

"Sir," said Germain, "I desire that this matter be regulated in the manner that shall best preserve the honour of the company of Noailles, of which you are the custodian. I must explain to you, for the regiment, the facts concerning my title of Repentigny. The Marquis of that name, it is true, is a Canadian, and was, until the British conquest a generation ago, possessor of the estate of Repentigny, of which his family, the LeGardeurs, have borne the name as their principal designation. But this Lery, a man of very inferior pedigree, notwithstanding his pretensions, has in his ignorance and presumption overlooked a fact into which he should have at least inquired before lying about a gentleman. He ought to be aware that the LeGardeurs have ceased to possess Repentigny since the year 1763. Has he asked himself what has become of it in the mean-time? Know then, sir, and gentlemen of this company, that that seigniory being sold again, and again regranted by the British Crown, has long ago become the property of my father in perfect title. Does Monsieur Lery dispute the rule that a gentleman may take the name of a property of his own or of his father's? Yet, in case there be a technical defect for the purposes of a name in France, in the fact that we unfortunately hold Repentigny of a foreign power, I am ready—and indeed from this time forth intend—to recur to another name about which no petty cavil can rise—for we are not so poor in titles as to be confined to one—the original illustrious name of my family—LeCour de Lincy. You, sir, have my attestation by the herald, in the strictest form, and some of you, gentlemen officers, know under what circumstances you have seen me in the family of the Chevalier de Bailleul. I have one thing now to add to these evidences. As guardian, sir, of the regiment, do me the honour and justice of examining these papers"—here he handed him his new documents, and passed around the family seal with its coat-of-arms. "Know me henceforth," he added, "proven, by a designation above all question, error, or calumny, and noble among the oldest in the kingdom—my ancestral name of LeCour de Lincy. Adjutant, I respectfully demand your decision."

"The rules of the army," the latter answered, precise as usual, "are satisfied by the attestation of the best authority in the realm on your antiquity. The Company cannot take official notice of an unsustained attack upon you; the defence of your honour in such a matter rests with your own sword. Still, gentlemen, though not formally necessary, I am pleased to hear a voluntary explanation so satisfactory to our military family, whose duty it meanwhile is without doubt to support our comrade."

And he saluted Germain.

The company present buzzed with agitation, and many began to speak low together. Those from Chalons fixed their eyes towards a corner behind Lecour.

And now in that direction a figure wearing the green cross-belt of the company of Villeroy rose, pale, aristocratic, coldly calm, and said, "I am de Lery."

The pallor that suddenly blanched Lecour's countenance as he turned in the direction of the voice left it as quickly when he fully faced his opponent. He measured him instantaneously, and the man he saw became stamped indelibly on his mind's eye—a picture, in typical contemptuous perfection of feature and dress, of the French aristocracy of the old regime. The very chair on the back of which his hand rested seemed a part of the type—one of those beautiful white chairs of the period, on which, on snowy, glittering tapestry, was woven a Fable of Lafontaine in matchless Gobelin dyes.

"Do you admit, sir, that you have defamed me?" Lecour cried, grasping the hilt of his sword and advancing a foot.

"I defame nobody," Louis answered coldly.

"Have you not disseminated statements that my name is stolen?"

"I have said that the noble designation of Repentigny did not belong to you—that its rightful owners are my uncle the Marquis of Repentigny, now in Paris, and his family."

"Did you not know——"

"Stay, sir. I have also asserted that you are an impostor, the son of a tradesman of Canada, formerly a private soldier of the Marquis de Lotbiniere, and that you have not the slightest claim to consort with gentlemen, still less to belong to the Bodyguard, and less again to become an officer."

"Liar! liar! liar! Lery, it is you who are the impostor! You are afraid of those who can tell the truth about you, but I did not conceive that you would carry our colonial jealousies so far as this. Do you persist or do you retract?"

"The scene becomes disagreeable," said some of those present to each other.

"It is colonial jealousy, of course," said others. "What have we to do with it?"

De Lery stood looking at Lecour without moving, in imperturbable contempt.

"I demand satisfaction," the latter hissed.

De Lery moved only slightly.

"The laws of honour," said he, "would bid me answer the challenge of a gentleman. But do you flatter yourself they compel me to cross steel with such as you?"

This was the cruellest blow, and under it Germain winced wrathfully. It was so cruel that those present murmured, and some cried "Shame!"

"You shall meet me! You must meet me! Besides a slanderer, you are a coward. Your company, whom you disgrace, have honour enough to make you meet me," called Germain in tones of rage.

"Accept! accept! accept!" cried the Guardsmen of the company of Villeroy.

"You ask me to dishonour myself?—to cross swords with an animal?" exclaimed de Lery, turning angrily to his comrades.

"Shame! shame!" was the cry around the room.

"Gentlemen of the Bodyguard," said Collinot, "I must remind you where you are."

D'Amoreau and the Baron led Germain off to his chamber. There they sat down, and d'Amoreau wrote out a challenge, which Grancey, whom Lecour chose as his second, delivered without delay.

Germain was strung to a frightful tension. When his companions, at Grancey's suggestion, left him alone, he locked the doors and a storm of apprehensions took hold upon him. The situation presented itself in two deadly alternatives, either his annihilation in eternal darkness, or else that his rapier must let out the red life-stream of a man who, hateful though he might be, was but a speaker of the truth. In that case, all would come out and justice have to be settled with, both human and divine. Yes, that extreme justice—to be banished for ever out of the world of Cyrene. Was it not the better alternative to permit himself to die by the first thrust of de Lery?



CHAPTER XXVI

A DUEL

Nothing pleased de Lotbiniere better than shaping a policy. His dark eyes were constantly full of plan, whether they looked at you or into the masses of a boulevard flowing with people, or at his own prospects or those of his family pictured in the future.

Upon the mother-of-pearl writing-desk in front of him lay his journal, containing, in a close and perfect handwriting—of a piece with his skill as a Royal Engineer in military designing—an industrious account of whatever incidents seemed from day to day of use to him. The entry visible at the head of the new page read—"Repentigny absolutely refuses to prosecute the impostor."

The Marquis, however, was for the moment engaged upon a letter pressing his interests with the Minister, and in which he was composing the sentence—"Thus, my Lord, I find myself again in possession of the happy privilege of humbly recalling to you my services, resulting, with those of General Montcalm, in the great victories of Ticonderoga and Fort William Henry, and I——"

He reached the bell-rope and pulled it. His servant immediately entered.

"You will take this letter which I am signing to the Palace of the Louvre, where you will ask for the third supernumerary private Secretary of the Minister, to whom you are to hand it with the money there on the table, and say that it is sent by the Marquis de Lotbiniere. Repeat the name twice very distinctly to him, and see there is no mistake about third or supernumerary or private. Here it is. Seal and carry it. Have you brought me no mail this morning?"

"I was about to hand you this note, Monseigneur."

De Lotbiniere looked methodically at the seal, the handwriting, and the date of the postmark.

"Go," he said to the servant.

The incoming letter was from Louis de Lery, begging his uncle's advice in the affair of Lecour.

"The horror I have," wrote he, after relating the circumstances, "is not of death, for in that respect I shall not be found unworthy of our ancestors. It is solely the horror—the disgust—of being compelled to measure myself with a being so ill-assorted. I cannot limit myself in expressions at my comrades who force this upon me, nor of detestation and repugnance towards the creature itself. What am I do? Your experience just now would be invaluable to me.

"LOUIS R. C. DE LERY."

"Peste, what a fine mess for us all!" de Lotbiniere exclaimed. "The persistence of this fellow is incredible. They say de Bailleul supports him. I shall begin, then, by removing the support of de Bailleul. Louis must not fight this duel."

He picked out a sheet from his pile of gilt-edged note-paper, laid it down, selected a quill and tried it, then wrote de Bailleul a sharp letter, as follows—

"MON CHER DE BAILLEUL,—They tell me to my amazement that it is you who are the protector of the young Canadian Lecour, who is just now making such a noise as an adventurer. He has at least obtained a high commission in the Bodyguard by the use of your name. I have no doubt that you are aware that he is the son of Lecour of St. Elphege, my former cantineer. Can it be true that, knowing his birth to be so base, you go so far as to permit him the use of your position in these intrigues? If that be so—for I hesitate to credit it—let me go farther and remark that a most serious consequence has just followed his indiscretion. He challenges my nephew, de Lery, for a date fixed and imminent. We consider you responsible for this situation. I consequently trust that you will find some way to suppress your brazen-faced protege.

"And I have the honour to be, sir, &c., "THE MIS. DE CHARTIER DE LOTBINIERE."

"That will end him," remarked he, and reading it over, he folded, addressed and sealed it, and putting on his hat and gloves proceeded to the General Depot of the Post. There he took out his watch, noted the hour and minute, and handed in the letter.

The Chevalier was then in Versailles, so that Lotbiniere's note reached him quickly, and he replied—

"MY DEAR SIR,—Your note is a great shock to me. I have not slept nor lain down all night, on account of the matter of our young countryman, which is one of the most unfortunate in the world. He is as a son to me; and out of my feelings for him I beseech you to treat him considerately, for you cannot know how sensitive and fine-minded he is; the immediate ruin would kill him. Let us rather combine to withdraw him more gradually from his false position. Cannot the quarrel between the young men be softened by gentle means? As for myself, I am ready to use my best influence with you in that direction."

The Marquis read the letter over twice.

"He is asking quarter," he ultimately pronounced; "clemency is asked of the victor: well, I will be clement. Lecour shall first write a humble retraction of all his claims. This shall be left in my hands by him for thirty days, during which the pretender shall leave France. De Lery will then exhibit the retraction, with attestations both by myself and de Bailleul."

De Lotbiniere contemplated the cupids frescoed on the frieze urbanely. He was victor.

A knock came, and the Marquis de Repentigny was ushered in.

"See," said he, "what is going all over Paris"; and he gave a newspaper passage to de Lotbiniere to read.

The item ran—

"The duel between the two Bodyguards, Monsieur de Lery and the Chevalier de Repentigny, took place this morning at four o'clock in the woods of Bois du Lac. It is said that on account of some provincial quarrel, the former had insulted the latter by denying his gentility, of which, however, the Chevalier had made the amplest proofs on entering his regiment. During the duel, he displayed the firmest yet most amiable spirit, and having disarmed M. de Lery upon the coup de tierce, magnanimously refused to draw blood. The seconds then interfered and declared the honour of the combatants satisfied."

"Devil! Peste! Species of pig!" de Lotbiniere cried, his rage finding too few words.

"I just now heard some more details from an officer of of the Lambesc Dragoons," Repentigny continued. "My namesake was perfectly silent; Louis, on the contrary, quite unlike his ordinary manner, made no attempt to control himself. He never ceased to exclaim, 'Clodfoot! Impostor!' and to taunt the stranger at each stroke with his father's origin. Finally Louis was disarmed, whereupon, with the same silence, Lecour handed back his sword—'with great dignity' said the Dragoon, and Louis refused to receive it."

"'With great dignity!'" shouted de Lotbiniere—"You speak as though you had no feeling."

"On the contrary," replied Repentigny, "I am very sorry for every one concerned."

"Save your pity! I shall now bring up my heavy guns."



CHAPTER XXVII

JUDE AND THE GALLEY

The Council of the Galley-on-Land were gathered again in Gougeon's shop at two in the morning. All Paris was sleeping, and even the orgies of the Beggars' Ball had sunk to silence. There was animation among the Council, for in a corner, not at first visible, lay a subject of debate—a prisoner tightly bound with a rope. Each man held some piece of sharp iron, Wife Gougeon her pistol. The Admiral sat wrapped in his brown cloak.

"I caught him!" shouted Hache hilariously; "I caught him myself."

"Who is he?" the Admiral asked.

"The sheep that followed me. They have followed me ever since the breaking of Bec and Caron. This one was the worst. He follows you along like a lizard under a wall; but I caught him, I caught him!"

A stifled struggle with its fastenings were heard from the bundle in the corner.

"Bring him over," order the Admiral.

Gougeon and Hache went over, lifted the bundle, and deposited it in the centre of the group, where the candle rays brought out amidst it the lines of a face. A woollen gag was across the mouth, the eyes were bloodshot and fear-distorted, but the features were unmistakable. They were those of Jude.

Jude, when deprived of the favour of the Princess, had offered his services to the police administration. He was set on the track of Hache, whom he successfully shadowed and was about to expose, together with the Gougeons and their den, when his victim caught him.

Gougeon took hold of the prisoner's hand roughly, and bound a new gag under the chin and tightly over the head; he then loosened the mouth gag and turned away, without any interest in the sequel, to pick at a driblet of grease running down the side of the candle.

The change in the gags allowed of speech between the teeth while preventing the prisoner's mouth from opening to cry out.

"Spy," said the Admiral severely. "You are in the service of the Lieutenant of Police?"

"Oh, no, sir, I pray you," Jude hissed. "I am no spy, a poor Abbe only; and in the name of the Church——"

"The Church is one of our enemies."

"But I am not in orders—a secular, a reader, a poor companion. Oh, let me go and I will do you no harm. I have some money—eighty-five florins—at my lodgings; let me but go and bring it."

"And betray us all!" screamed Wife Gougeon. "No, Monsieur Abbe. When you go from here it will not be to sing."

"Monsieur will doubtless sign an order for us to draw this sum," said the Admiral most suavely.

"Immediately on my release," gasped the Abbe.

"It is more just that we should have the money first."

"But I am dying of fear. I have no courage. Listen, listen, I pray of you good people. I shall give you all I have and fly from you for ever as far as I can."

"Unbind his right hand," commanded the leader. "Is there any paper here?"

"His own book. I took it from his pocket," said Wife Gougeon, handing over a note-book.

The Admiral pounced upon it. The first entry he read aloud was headed "Hache—ex-convict," succeeded by a description; following it were memoranda concerning several others of the gang; further on, the number and street of the shop, and at length an entry: "The Admiral, an individual of Brittany, who seems to have some connection with these people."

"Oho!" he cried, "Monsieur Abbe, what do you say to this?"

A hoarse, long groan was the reply.

Femme Gougeon came over to him, and putting her glittering eyes just over his, caught his neck with her left hand, and stretching her right up to Gougeon said "A knife!"

"No," the Admiral exclaimed peremptorily. "What would you do with the blood? To the rats with him rather, like the others. Hache, the trap."

The ex-felon staggered across a pile of scraps, and raised a triplet of planks which covered a pit. A sickening odour arose.

"Down with him," continued the robber Captain.

"But his money?" murmured Gougeon.

"Never mind it."

All the men present caught up Jude and hurried him quickly over the gaping hole, in which he could hear a scuttling of vermin feet and a chorus of squeaks.

"May the next be Repentigny!" the Admiral began. "Now up with him——"

A death-like hiss rose from Jude's lips, "Repentigny? He is my enemy too. I will be your slave. I have too much fear of you to ever harm you. Let me tell you about this Repentigny. Life, life, I beseech—I beseech—beseech you!"

"Back a moment!" the Admiral commanded.

Jude was carried once more into the candle-light.

"Who is the Repentigny you say you know?"

"The officer—of the King's—Bodyguard."

"What do you know about him?"

"I lived in the same house at Versailles—the Hotel de Noailles."

"Then you are an aristocrat?"

"Oh, no, sir; do not accuse me—only a servant—one of the people—and I was dismissed."

"A reader, you said. Well, what of this Repentigny?"

"I could inform you concerning all his movements were you only to release me."

The Admiral looked away and reflected several minutes. His sinister countenance was watched with terrible constancy by Jude. At length the victim caught what he took for a relaxation of the cruel look on the face of the Admiral, who rose and tapped upon the box on which the candle stood.

"Ragmen," he said. The spy's breath stopped in his suspense. "Ragmen, carry him back."

It was a terrific blow to Jude, who still, however, retained consciousness, though now incapable of even hiss or contortion. He was held over the trap again, and the leader once more commenced speaking. "Spy," he said, "you have been condemned by the Galley-on-Land to the death which now yawns beneath you. Men, lift him up till I give my final order." He paused a time; it seemed an eternity to Jude.

"Monsieur Spy," continued he. "Are you ready, in return for your life, to serve the Galley-on-Land, of which I am Admiral, before all other masters; to go where I bid you, to do what I command, to inform me of whatever will protect us; to succour a ragman before every other consideration!"

"All," the prisoner gurgled, with his last strength.

"Then live."

They hurried him back and laid him down on the floor unconscious.

"Yes, the order must be reversed: Repentigny first, this one afterwards," mused the Admiral, who could do nothing without indulging his turn for brutal melodrama.



CHAPTER XXVIII

ANOTHER DUEL

Lecour's temper gave out at the irreconcilability of Louis during the duel, and as soon as he reached the quarters he commenced to return insult for insult. He exclaimed among his companions that Lery, as he called him, and his family were petty skin-merchants of Quebec and kept a shop in their house; that his father had acquired some contemptuous favour with the British Governors on account of his having been the first Canadian to turn traitor to the French King, and that Lery's lies and slanders were just what was to be expected of a breed so base. The sympathy of the company was with Germain. All took his part, and his statements were reported to the officers of the Villeroy. The latter insisted on de Lery's vindicating his and their honour by another challenge, and compelled him to write it the same day; and Germain received it during the evening. The second who forwarded it politely requested that the time to be named be soon, as the Villeroys desired to return without delay to Chalons.

"Let it be immediately," answered Lecour. "There is a full moon and no need to wait another hour."

So the adversaries, with seconds and surgeon, rode out to an open spot in the same wood as before, where the two stripped off their coats and waistcoats, tucked up their laces, were handed their rapiers, and commenced.

From the first it was evidently to be a deadly fight.

Conscious of this, however, they were both on the watch, and it was some minutes before more than a pass or two was made, and these without result. The moonlight, too, though the seconds had placed them as fairly as possible, was at best not absolutely clear and enforced prudence, for even the brightest moonlight is deceptive.

At last de Lery, with a clever movement, got in a savage thrust, from which Lecour only saved himself by extreme alertness with a little graze of the neck. De Lery was the better trained swordsman of the two, and it was evident that his loss in the previous duel was due to his furious recklessness on that occasion. Now that the blood of both was up de Lery had again the superiority.

No sooner had the seconds permitted the fight to continue, after the scratch to Germain, than the latter, stung by rage, instantly thrust and hissed—

"Son of a traitor!"

The wild passion which these words aroused in de Lery saved Lecour. As it was he was nearly disarmed, and was subjected for several minutes to a series of onslaughts, which called on all his activity and the whole strength of his wrist.

"Hound! hog! soul of muck! canaille! adventurer! cheat!"

Such epithets came thick and fast with the strokes of de Lery, and were answered by "Slanderer! reptile! traitor! liar!" from the set lips of Lecour.

At last, with a fiery spring, de Lery, having lost all self-control, threw himself upon his enemy, and received a terrible slash up the sword-arm, which finished the battle and threw him sidelong on the ground, while bright red blood spouted all over his breast, and the surgeon and seconds ran to attend to him. He lost consciousness and fell back, limp and ghastly.

No sooner had he fallen than a figure in black sprang out of the wood, brandishing his sword, and shouting—

"Well done, our champion! I will finish your work"; and rushing at the prostrate man, over whom the seconds were bending, he pushed them aside, and was on the point of driving the weapon into his body.

Lecour threw himself forward and struck up the steel with his own.

"Coward!" he shouted, preparing for further defence of his late antagonist, while the astonishment of Grancey and his fellow-second at the apparition held them momentarily helpless.

"I am no coward, but the Instrument of Vengeance. His blood has slain mine. The scales of heaven are nice to a hair. Let me kill him!" and the stranger's sword glittered again in a sudden movement. But this time Grancey seized him, and his colleague assisted in overcoming the man's struggles.

"It is a madman," said the surgeon, his hands occupied with his bandages; "keep him safe till I can finish this work."

"A madman, yes!" shouted Philibert; "and who made me mad? It was one of this man's race of murderers and traitors. Justice will only sleep when he too dies by the sword, like my father, whom they slew. Let me strike! let me kill him! or, if you will not let me kill him, I will depart, for the hour of Justice it seems is not yet."

"Depart quickly then," sternly said the surgeon, taking advantage of the turn in his mood, and at the words the seconds released the maniac.

Philibert ran again into the woods and disappeared.

"There is too much loss of blood—too much," the surgeon remarked gravely.

Lecour, wondering and agitated, divined, while the others were occupied, the identity of the visitant.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE LETTRE DE CACHET

Lecour had succeeded for a time in baffling the forces arrayed against him.

The next turn was made by de Lotbiniere, who entered in his journal his intention of now speaking to the following persons, in their order—

The Minister, Repentigny, The Chevalier de Villerai, Vaudreuil, The Genealogist of France, The Prince de Poix, The Marechale de Noailles, The Baroness de la Roche Vernay.

He went to the first on the list and obtained an interview in private with his chief secretary, from which he issued with a large sealed envelope, which contained a handsome parchment in blank, signed "Louis." It was a lettre de cachet, one of those warrants by which a man might, without warning to his friends or any charge laid, be arrested and imprisoned in one of those fortresses whose walls were so many living graves. He took it to the lodgings of Repentigny.

"Pierre, I am on the campaign against your namesake!" exclaimed he.

"Then you have heard the latest news?"

"Not if it is fresh to-day."

"An hour old. There has been a second duel between our Louis and Lecour. What a pity!"

"A pity? it is an infernal outrage! Another duel? Oh, my God!"

"Lecour became impatient——"

"Impatient, forsooth!"

"And exclaimed among his companions that Lery——"

"Curse his insolence!"

"That Lery's family were skin-merchants."

"The pig and scoundrel! he shall sting for this. Why do you hold yourself so calm, Repentigny, when your family is insulted?"

"Frankly, because it is not altogether untrue."

"We in trade? Our nobles skin-merchants? Is it thus that you will allow the King's permission to our order to engage in the fur trade to be stigmatised?"

"I have, Michel, seen the ways of many peoples. I have learned to look on the castes of our Canada with the same eyes as I look on those of India, the eyes of amusement, for I find in mankind everywhere the same tendencies and the same pretensions."

"But this beast of a Lecour is a liar and impostor."

"Both."

"Then I will show you your duty. Open this envelope. You have only to fill Lecour's name into the warrant it contains, and he goes under lock and key in the Bastille."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"He is a brave man."

"Tut, you madden me, Pierre. The worst felons are bold."

"But not generous. Lecour saved Louis's life from the blade of a madman at this duel. I know too well how that madman would have thrust. We are both mad—he and I, pursuer and pursued—I have brought it down on both. Poor Louis! have I pulled down the wrath of God also upon you? What is this, Michel, that you have brought? Consider what you ask me to do? To think that any man of our free colony would use a lettre de cachet, and against a brother Canadian! The thing is damnable," and he flung the parchment into the fire, where it curled up instantly as if sensitive to the flame, and cracked loudly with bursting blisters.

"Pierre, you are a cursed fool!" de Lotbiniere retorted violently, and left, while Repentigny's face became clouded with an unspeakable torture of sadness.

The Chevalier de Villerai, who was next on de Lotbiniere's list, was one of the quartermasters of Louis' company, and de Lotbiniere, to see him, would have had to journey to Chalons, some fifty miles away. Being a relative, he instead wrote him. He received a reply, enclosing one from de Lery, who was lying ill of his wound. From the embittered sentences of his nephew, de Lotbiniere learned of the insistence of his comrades on his sending Lecour the challenge, and of the result to de Lery's right arm. Louis vowed that he would more willingly seek him the next time, and that the fight would be at sight without any formalities. He told nothing of Lecour's act of mercy, of which he was apparently uninformed.

The quartermaster was an easy-going, large-framed man who regarded most things as an occasion for drinking and joking. He willingly undertook to assist de Lotbiniere to act for the de Lery party among the Guardsmen, and to take charge of any petitions which might need to be presented to a military court. He protested good-humouredly, however, that "he was a sabreur, not an advocate." De Lotbiniere, having made these arrangements, went to Versailles and saw the Count de Vaudreuil. The Count blandly alleged himself "ready to oblige Monsieur de Lotbiniere in any manner in his power."

The Genealogist of France was much interested in the Marquis's story, and certified in writing that the family name of the Repentignys was not Lecour, but Le Gardeur.

The Marquis now went to the Prince. He asked for a private audience and was admitted. Though Poix had not the remotest idea in the world who he was, yet he received him with obliging courtesy, combined with a certain customary hauteur.

"'Lecour,' you say, Monsieur? Is that the name?"

"Yes, Prince," the Marquis returned.

"I do not know any such person."

"His stolen appellation is Lecour de Repentigny."

"Repentigny? ah, I know, I know."

"As I have said, sir, the man is a cheat. Here in my hands are proofs of it, and I, myself, am personal witness against him."

"Ah, this is serious, this is serious," repeated the Prince in a disturbed tone.

"Your Excellency will, then, order his expulsion from the company?"

"Ah, you ask much, you ask much. I refer you to my adjutant. He manages those things," and with a slightly impatient gesture the Prince bowed, and de Lotbiniere knew that he must go.

He next proceeded to Troyes to see Collinot. That officer examined particularly the Genealogist's certificate, went to the records, compared it with the former attestation, arrived at a conclusion. He treated the matter as of its full importance, and the only respect in which he disappointed de Lotbiniere was that he did not share the latter's violent feelings.

"The young man has been an efficient officer," he said regretfully, "and his conduct that of a gentleman. He is very unfortunate at an age when a man feels such misfortune keenly. It is regrettable for all of us. But, no doubt, we must do our duty."

"And preserve our young officers from consorting with the scum of the people, Monsieur Adjutant."

"He is scarcely scum, sir. One must allow that in point of form he is parfaitement bien. It is likely that the fortune of his father has led him quite naturally to believe himself fit for the regiment."

"He ought, instead, to have been standing aproned in a pork-market. He deserves the galleys."

"You are interested, Monsieur, and look at the affair with personal annoyance. As for me, I am guided solely by the royal ordinance requiring proofs of sixteen quarterings for entry into the Bodyguard. If Monsieur Lecour—who is now de Lincy—not Repentigny—cannot show them satisfactorily, he does not fulfil the ordinance, that is all. He is to-day at a shooting party."

"This Lincy name is a worse imposture than the other. I tell you, Monsieur Adjutant, it is impossible for such folk to have nobility."

"Pardon me, sir," said Collinot, taking out his watch. "May I invite you to review the force?"

"I must deny myself this great honour, inasmuch as I am not ready with your new infantry drill," returned de Lotbiniere, intensely flattered at an invitation to review Bodyguards.

Besides, he had at last, he said to himself, effected his point. So he ordered his carriage and departed for Paris to pursue the rest of his plans.



CHAPTER XXX

THE HEAVENS FALL

When Germain returned from the shooting party, he was sent for from Collinot's office, and upon his entering, the door was closed.

As the closing of Collinot's door was an unusual proceeding, and was known among the regiment to denote something very particular, speculation and excitement immediately became rife, and the news that Lecour was closeted with Collinot spread like wildfire.

Germain, rosy and active, saluted his superior gallantly. The latter returned the action with a non-committal countenance.

"A gentleman calling himself the Marquis de Lotbiniere has just been here. Do you know him?"

Germain braced himself.

"I have heard of him in Canada," he said, "but his Marquisate is not believed in there."

"You Canadians have strange tales of each other. He is apparently a very respectable man, and supported his allegations about you—which are in substance the same as those made by Monsieur de Lery—by a certificate from the Genealogist that the family name of Repentigny is LeGardeur, not Lecour."

"Did he admit that he is an uncle of my adversary, de Lery, and has the natural malice against me of a relative of my antagonist?"

"I have made due allowance for his bias, Monsieur Lecour."

Germain's heart sank at the form of the name in which he was addressed.

"The difficulty," proceeded the Adjutant, "is in your papers; for, however the truth may stand as to your position, your proofs to the regiment were made under the title of Repentigny, a designation which you have abandoned. My position, as representing and protecting the regiment, therefore, is that I hold no proper proofs that you possess the generations of descent which you are aware are necessary. I now have the honour of calling upon you to produce such proofs."

"Very well, sir," answered Germain, and leaving the room, strode to his quarters and returned with the de Lincy copies.

Collinot scanned them carefully. Germain, waiting silently, noticed that on the whole he was not displeased.

"Only the past two generations are lacking," he pronounced, "your certificate of baptism and those of your father and mother, together with their marriage contract. Why are they not supplied?"

"I have no doubt they can be. With your permission, I shall send at once to Canada for them."

But Collinot was silent again, looking over the documents.

The story de Lotbiniere was likely to have told crossed Germain's mind, and he went on—

"I have no doubt the enemies of my family mentioned every disadvantageous fact. If it is that my father is in trade, let me say yes—as the greatest merchant in his country and the equal of any one there—and let me add that the decrees of our King always permitted noblesse in Canada to engage in commerce, from the circumstances of the country, just as those of Brittany are permitted to enter the commerce of the seas. That is therefore no derogation."

"It is not that which troubles me, lieutenant," Collinot answered, "but the certificates in themselves are incomplete in lacking the links I mention. Without them," he said, rising to his feet and looking at Lecour calmly, "you can no longer serve in the Prince's company."

The blow fell hard.

Germain sank down in a chair and turned his face aside.

"My God, she is lost to me," he murmured. Collinot caught the words. The natural kindness of the man overcame the formality of the disciplinarian, and he went and placed a hand upon Lecour's shoulder.

"You know, sir," he said kindly, "that one is not master of his birth, but of his conduct. Yours has been blameless. I sympathise with you greatly."

"Anything but this! Ruined, ruined—what ruin and disgrace!"

"Not so, my boy; there is no disgrace in being less wellborn—it is only that one possesses a few privileges the less."

"How am I to leave, sir? Shall I not have permission to seek my proofs in Canada and return?"

"If you can obtain the proofs you shall have your place again."

"Grant me but a few days to arrange my affairs."

"In your own interest let me advise you not to make it more than twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-four hours?"

"Twenty-four."

"Twenty-four hours!" repeated Lecour, dazed. "Can I have the privilege, then, at least, of wearing the uniform until I leave France?"

"That cannot be."

"May I ask but a certificate of having served, with honour in the company?" he gasped.

"It is due solely to those whose original right to have entered the corps is without dispute."

"Alas! all who have known me in my former state will ask why I have ceased to retain it." Pallor and despair seemed to have transformed him.

"Were I not a soldier," sighed Collinot, making a great effort to repress his own feelings, "I should under these painful circumstances most gladly write you a certificate. Remember me ever as one who would have liked to be your friend."

"Oh, sir, you have been too kind to me," Lecour cried, in a voice of agony, his eyes running tears; and grasping the hand of the Adjutant, he wrung it affectionately, and could speak no further. Sobering himself and turning quickly, he made his exit. Many curious eyes furtively followed him and guessed the secret as he strode along to his apartment.

Grancey came to him in a few moments, furious.

"The whole company holds there was never such a conspiracy—what can we do?"

"Nothing—nothing—nothing."



CHAPTER XXXI

ONE DEFENDER

Cyrene passed down her favourite oleander path at sunset to the great vinery in the Noailles garden. The oleanders were covered with their roseate blooms, and their beauty and that of the garden in the soft sunset light mysteriously deepened with an undefined regret the sadness and fears which were hers of late.

"Why do you not come to me, Germain? Why have you not at least written me a few words in reply to mine? Only a few words, my dear one—only the least line," she murmured to herself.

She passed on to the vinery, where sitting down under the interlaced green she became still more abstracted.

"Oh Germain, some great danger is above you. Who are those enemies of whom the Instrument of Vengeance spoke? What is this web of murder and madness in which they are involving you? I pray God to keep you safe, my love. Ah, what bliss to have you mine, mine, and be yours. At last, at last we shall have somewhere a sweet chez nous to ourselves."

The loveliness of the oleander blossoms and the sunset over the garden made a harmony with her dream. To the widow who had been no wife, the girl who had seen no girlhood, the child who had never had a home, the lady who was losing her life in gilded servitude, that dream was dear.

The sound of a silver bell broke in, the signal that she was in request by old Madame l'Etiquette. A sigh escaped her, and she hastened to the house.

To de Lotbiniere, to have effected his point had not been enough. To humiliate Lecour with the ladies with whom he had ingratiated himself was yet, in the opinion of this vindicator of public interests, demanded by justice to society, so he had wended his way that afternoon to the Hotel de Noailles and applied at the portal of the Marechale. There he was kept waiting while his name was sent in.

"The person is not on my list," she said. "Present my regrets." Covering his irritation with a smiling face, as courtiers must ever learn to do, he asked for ink and paper and patiently wrote her on the spot a respectful and pointed warning on the danger to Cyrene. His missive struck the dominant chord in the breast of Madame.

"What," she cried on reading it "de Lincy a cheat! No questionable person shall ally himself with the royal blood of the Noailles and Montmorencys! This is what comes of relaxing the old rules, the old customs, and admitting new people. It is what comes of this Austrian Queen." Ah—she glanced around quickly to see that none but her lady-in-waiting heard those last words.

"Show the man in," she added. The lady-in-waiting transmitted the order. De Lotbiniere appeared, and at Madame's request began his narrative.

He had not proceeded far when the Marechale sent for Cyrene. It was the kind of opportunity in which de Lotbiniere gloried. As soon as he commenced she scanned him with intense attention, saying to herself, "This is one of Germain's enemies." As he told his tale he too watched her closely. The courage with which she listened to the development of a story so deeply affecting her honour and her heart, and her perfect dignity, unexpected by him, baffled him, from point to point of his careful narration, where he had expected to produce effects.

"Of all women," he thought, "she is the strangest. Are my skill and effort to be wasted on a girl?" But guessing correctly all at once and rightly attributing her reticence to preparation and distrust of himself, he stopped and said—

"He has doubtless told Madame a very different version."

"He has told me nothing of these things, sir," she answered quietly.

De Lotbiniere was nonplussed, but he had not yet come to the duels. He now mentioned them.

"There have been two duels."

"Mon dieu!"

"I hope that your nephew punished him sharply," La Marechale interrupted.

"The brute, unfortunately, has wounded my nephew, Madame."

"Is your brother-in-law, the Marquis de Repentigny, whom you mentioned, he who killed a man named Philibert in Quebec?" now demanded Cyrene.

It was as if a thunderbolt struck de Lotbiniere.

"Who spoke to you of that?" he exclaimed hastily.

"Do you hear?" Cyrene cried excitedly, turning to La Marechale. "Do you hear this admission of murder?"

"It was no murder!" de Lotbiniere interrupted, trembling with feeling.

"You apparently wish some finer term to describe it," she retorted. "Sir, any charges made to me against my affianced must be supported by individuals more free of terrible records. I shall trust his innocence through eternity." And with these words, uttered frigidly, she left the room, the Marechale looking after her astonished.

Now Germain, having fled from Troyes, came to the hotel. He entered one of the great salons, and, miserable and desperate, sent up his name to Cyrene for a last interview. While he waited to be ushered up, to his surprise, she herself appeared at the end of the salon, advancing with a tearful expression. The sight of her, dragged down into his pit of misery, sent him distracted. All was forgotten for a few moments, as she tearfully clasped him in her arms and murmured—

"Germain, you are no adventurer, no Sillon. Though all the world be against you, I shall die with you."

Intoxicated with surprise that she did not repel him, yet overcome with the belief that it was to be their last embrace, he lost himself for the time in mingled remorse and mad bliss. They clung to each other as so many others have clung in those short moments which are the attar of a lifetime. At length he grew more conscious, and the delirium of holding that face and golden hair to his breast triumphed over the pain of guilt. At that moment they simultaneously perceived a shadow and started.

"Baroness," said a severe voice, "you make me blush for my house."

Cyrene and Germain sprang apart in alarm.

"You," Madame l'Etiquette said, addressing Germain, "have dared to enact such a scene here. You, the apothecary's apprentice——"

"Madame," Cyrene cried, her eyes flashing, "withdraw those words! I demand it!"

The situation aroused all his faculties.

"Madame la Marechale," said he quite coolly, "has taken, I observe, the word of my enemies without asking for the facts. I shall not fatigue her with arguments, as I am on my way to produce the proofs."

With two profound bows, the first to Cyrene, the other to Madame de Noailles, he withdrew.



CHAPTER XXXII

A STRONG PROOF

Remorse in all its horror seized him with the last glance of Cyrene's tearful eyes. He could not but feel the demand of those eyes for fine honour in the man on whom they rested in love. She was to him the white flower sprung of the truth and fearlessness, as well as the grace, of long descended chivalry, and who must not be associated with anything base. He had never before fully faced his Repentigny impersonation in the aspect of a falsity to her. Now, after his direct lie to her, self-contempt threatened to altogether overwhelm him.

He mechanically went on to Paris, whither Dominique had gone before to secure his lodging. The evening of his arrival was spent in grief.

"The fault is mine, but why?" he asked himself with impatient gloom. "Why has Providence so unfairly divided the honours and the guilt of life? Why are there rich and poor? Why good and bad? Why should an unfortunate like me, who has meant only well, be entangled in such a mesh of accidents? Why were my eyes designed but to see, my breast to love, my Cyrene, at such frightful cost?"

Next morning, the sunlight gilding the pinnacles of the Louvre, the cries of Paris, the fascinating dash of the metropolis, brought back to him his gift of animal spirits. Were he, he thought, but to successfully outride his present troubles, he would accept a post which had been offered him, as commandant of a cadet school on the far away estates of the Duke de la Rochefoucault, and thither retire quietly with Cyrene, away from the jealousy and criticism of the Court, and make open confession to her.

By appointment made at Troyes he went to meet Grancey in the Palais Royal garden.

Germain took his friend's arm and led him along the antiquated quarter of the Marais, where he had secured a room in a quiet neighbourhood for the old Chevalier de Lincy. His heart beat lest anything should have occurred to arrest the old noble's illusion. His intention was to introduce Grancey into the apartment of the old man, and there to let him gather from the lips of the occupant words that would link Germain with a house so ancient and respected. They arrived at the door, rang, and demanded of the landlady whether the Chevalier was in. She looked at them curiously as she held the door open.

"Is one of you Monsieur de Lincy's cousin!" she inquired.

"I, Madame," replied he.

"Come in, sir. Have you not received the letter posted yesterday by the priest?"

"By the priest?" Germain stopped, with his friend, on the threshold of the chamber into which she had led them. "Is he ill, then?"

"The saints protect him, sir, he has finished his last illness. He lies upstairs in his beautiful mortuary chamber draped by the Sisters of the Hospital."

"Poor old de Lincy," he murmured, yet could hardly realise it.

"Are you not Monsieur de Lincy, too, sir?" she inquired.

"Certainly," he replied quickly, checking himself, "but he was the head of the house. Alas! let me see him."

She led them up two flights and into the death chamber, which was heavily hung with black and the windows darkened. Two tapers at the head and two at the feet showed where the corpse lay, and near by stood an altar with lights and flowers, beside which two Black Nuns knelt motionlessly. The visitors crossed the room with bowed heads and looked down at the face of the dead. It had lost its worn look and was at peace. A faint smile, as of proud pleasure, rested on the lips, and Lecour knew that smile was for him. It brought him a strange emotion; he felt as if, though condemned by so many of the living, he was loved by the dead; and a great tenderness towards his pathetic relative welled in his heart. He bent over the face and earnestly wept.

"He loved you, Monsieur le Chevalier," the landlady said, weeping also, "and bade the notary leave with me a copy of his will for you. When Monsieur descends, I shall give it to him."

"Did he talk much before he died?"

"A great deal. The confessor said there was a high fever. He talked of a castle upon a mountain—and about you, Monsieur, a good deal. He was not strong when he came to us: I said from the beginning 'He is on the short way to heaven': he seemed like one who had suffered too much."

They followed her out of the chamber. Lecour could not help some eagerness concerning the will, and perusing it closely when she handed it to him, found it bequeathed him all the testator's possessions. He passed the deed silently to his friend the Baron, who read the first half and caught the drift.

"Your proof is incontestable," he said briefly.

"The difficulty is but the completion of my proofs. I have to go to Canada for that. But assure the company of my return."

"We shall appeal in a body to the Prince."

"I pray you not."

"What can we do for you, then?"

"Thank the others. Invite all my friends in Troyes to a banquet in my name this day week, at which you will preside for me. Spare no expense. You shall be witness for me while I am absent in Canada."

"If to serve you is the programme, I shall live happy."

The Baron returned to Troyes and, duly presiding at the dinner given to the Guards in Germain's name, related excitedly what he had seen.

The young men heard the story with outbursts of delight, drank Lecour's health standing on their chairs, heaped his place with roses, sang over and over a chorus in his honour, and parted swearing vehemently that the dismissal of such a good fellow was a wrong to the company of Noailles concocted as an insult to the whole of them by the rival company of Villeroy.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE REGISTER OF ST. GERMAIN-DES-PRES

A hazy hope concerning his descent had haunted Lecour for some months past. That the Chevalier de Lincy was really in some manner his relative became his belief. He argued that his own fitness for aristocratic society must have a hereditary explanation and that, were he able to trace his lineage a short distance backward he would discover some higher status fallen from by his family through misfortune. On the day of de Grancey's departure, he began to place together the straws of information which might guide him. He had once heard his father speak of having left France at the age of twelve years. Was he a kidnapped and deported heir? Was he a cadet of some reduced family?

Again, on one of the rare occasions when Lecour senior referred to the past—a winter's evening chat by the fire-side with the cure of the parish—he had described his boyish recollection of the interior of the Paris church of St. Germain-des-Pres, then the family church of his family. Was his own name taken from its patron saint? Would its registers contain records of the Lecours?

He knew at least his father's age—born in 1736, it would make him—yes, and also his birth month, June. Here were straws to start by.

He lost no time in crossing the Seine and seeking the church. As he passed the middle of the Pont Neuf—near the equestrian statue of Henry IV., a small man, meanly dressed, glided out of the shadow of a vehicle, and moved stealthily after him, his motions wary as a cat's. This man was Jude.

Germain arrived at the edifice, which adjoined the great abbey of the same name, and scanned its ancient spire and dilapidated facade for some moments before he entered, full of thought—"for here," said he "is the temple of my forefathers—the visible link that binds my origin to France." He passed in, regarding every pillar and ornament of its quaint, dark, Norman interior with the same fascination, and traversing its length, came to the sacristy behind the high altar. A young priest was standing there overlooking the operations of some workmen, and muttering his breviary.

"Messire, I am seeking information for which I wish to examine your parish registers," said Germain.

"It is an honour, sir," replied the priest. "What is the year?"

"1736."

"The books are here, sir," opening a cupboard in which various large volumes leaned against each other on the shelves. "This is 1736. May I assist you in finding the entry?"

"I am not sure what I need."

"I fear Monsieur will not find some of the entries easy reading."

"Time is not important to me, father," answered Germain cheerfully. "May I take the register to this table near the light?"

"With pleasure; but should the handwriting be difficult, speak to me. I am the archivist of the abbey." And thus saying he turned back to his workmen.

Lecour examined the volume with beating heart. He nervously fingered the leaves at first without receiving any distinct impression of the contents, his brain was so full of other thoughts. At last he noticed that the entries were regular and consecutive, and though written in different hands, were clear to follow. He reached the month of June, read its entries slowly, one after another—a birth, a marriage, a death, then another death, then a birth again, and so on, with the names of the parties and their parents, some high, some low, until he came to nearly the end, when suddenly one seemed to stare at him out of the page.

"The 27th,—Took place the baptism of Francois Xavier, tenth son of Pierre Lecour, master-butcher, of this Parish, and of his wife, Marie LeCoq. He had for godfather, Jean LeCoq, tinker, and for godmother, Therese, wife of Louis Bossu, Charcoal vendor."

From the moment he read the word "master-butcher," his head swam, his heart sank, he felt a blow as if it were the stunning thud of a heavy weight upon it, and an unconscious groan escaped him.

"Monsieur is sick," exclaimed the priest to his men. "Bring wine."

"No, father," returned Germain, slowly rising, and steadying himself, "it is nothing," and he walked forward and left the sacristy.

The room had two doors leading inward to the high altar, one on each side. Just as Lecour passed out by the left one, Jude glided in by that on the right, and crossing boldly to the open book, pounced upon the entry of baptism.



CHAPTER XXXIV

AT QUEBEC

Germain was now committed to the most desperate courses to maintain his assumed character. He left France, and by way of London, took ship for his colony. The Canada of 1788 was a quaint community shut away out of the great world. It consisted of a few widely separated hamlets, keeping in touch with each other by means of a long road on each shore of the St. Lawrence, and having as chief cities the two tiny walled towns of Quebec and Montreal. It possessed a population of perhaps a hundred and fifty thousand souls, all French except a couple of British regiments, and a handful of officials and tradesmen. Some bodies of refugee Loyalists of the American Revolution had recently also come in. The driblet of population thus strung scantily along the banks of the vast river seemed as nothing in the mighty forest by which it was surrounded. The country therefore had in great part the virgin look of the primeval solitude.

After an eight weeks' stormy voyage in the London barque Chatham, Germain cast his eyes with relief on the tawny, lion-like rock of Quebec, with the fortress above and the little town about its feet, and straggling up its sides. The vessel at length drew up to moorings, the anchor dropped, and a boat came out for the passengers. He disembarked with his boxes, and inquired for a good lodging in the Upper Town. A caleche-driver undertook to find him one, and leaving the heavier luggage with a merchant near by, lashed his brisk little horse with the ends of the reins, and inspired it into a cat-like climb by which Lecour was whisked up the precipitous windy street called Mountain Hill, from the busy Lower to the aristocratic and military Upper Town.

After some searching they found a certain Madame Langlois, a widow who lived in a comfortable house on St. Louis Street, and could give the gentleman a front room on her first floor. There he could see the principal doings of the town, for it was not far from the Place d'Armes and the Castle. It suited him and he installed himself. As it was late in the afternoon, he occupied the time by unpacking his effects until called to supper by Madame Langlois. At the meal, he noted that his landlady—a thin, civil woman of thirty-eight or so, was simply dying of discreet curiosity. He vouchsafed her only his name, and that he was just arrived from France. He, however, asked a number of questions about the Castle, the Governor, his staff, and the prominent people of the town, and inflamed her interest as much by his questions as by his dress and manners. Then retiring till dusk fell, he went out and wandered about the neighbourhood.

The rock of Quebec is like a lion couchant beside the St. Lawrence. On the head is the fortress, on the back the Upper Town, around the feet nestles the Lower Town, while the River St. Charles flows around the hinder parts.

The city was no vast place: its population was but some seven thousand souls, with about two thousand of a garrison, and the occupied area in the Upper Town covered a few streets only, the remainder consisting of grassy fields stretching to the fortification walls. The citadel, picturesquely crowning the summit of the rock, stood several hundred yards higher, at one side. The Castle of St. Louis, the main ornament of the place next to the cathedral, overlooked the cliff, resting on a series of tall buttresses ribbing the side of the precipice.

At every point along the "lion's back," or upper edge of the cliff, where Germain was, a magnificent view greeted him. He stopped to enjoy it. The harbour lay glimmering far below in the moonbeams, across it the heights of Levis stretched along the weird landscape. The lighted windows of the Lower Town, of which he could see little more than the shimmering dark roofs, shone up obliquely. All was domed over by a dark-blue sky in which the harvest moon rode.

He walked back from the cliff along the Rue St. Louis to the city wall, and returned by the Rue Buade. In doing so he scanned the fortifications with military interest, and returning, remarked the dark, low pile of the convent of the Jesuits, and also the cathedral and the seminary adjoining. He remembered once hearing his father say this cathedral of Quebec had been designed by one of the de Lerys. From the place in front of it he could make out dimly, down the slope of Ste. Famille Street close by, the de Lery mansion itself.

"The father and mother will be there," he cogitated. "They will have had letters about me from France by this time."

He turned again along Buade Street, and continued his stroll with an object, for at the point where the sharp descent towards the Lower Town began he brought up before a stately house of stone, of an antique architecture, on the face of which, over the door, something indistinctly glittered. It was the house of the Golden Dog; and as he surveyed it and tried vainly to read the letters of the inscription, his shadowy visitor at Troyes once more arose vividly before his imagination, and the terrible scene of Philibert's murder seemed to be enacted again upon the flight of steps before the door. Absorbed in the gruesome story with which he was so strangely connected, he returned to his chamber, and retired.

Twice he heard the tramp of a change of guards passing along the street. Once a convent bell rang, perhaps for some midnight burial.

The next day at breakfast he learned from his hostess that the presence of the strange gentleman lodging with her had been remarked by several young women, and that it was already the gossip of the Upper Town. In the course of her stream of news she mentioned Monsieur de Lery. The hand with which he was about to lift his cup to his lips stopped, and he casually asked—

"Who is he?"

"The Honourable Monsieur de Lery," she exclaimed. "I thought he was known to all the world. He is the senior in the Governor's council, and his lady is the best customer of my brother-in-law's shop. The old Chevalier de Lery never did a wrong to any one, and if he is a little stiff, he still walks the straightest man in the town of Quebec."

Lecour withdrew to his chamber, and opened a miniature portmanteau covered with purple leather and stamped in gold with the de Lincy arms. He drew out a parchment, which he placed on the table. Then, taking from his clothes-box the uniform of his lieutenancy in the Bodyguard—which he had been so expressly forbidden to wear—he dressed himself before the glass with the greatest care, and having finished, put on his sword, placed the parchment in his bosom, took up his hat, and went forth with his ordinary air of ease and command. Passing along the street and across the Place d'Armes—at the insignificance of which, comparing it with that of Versailles, he laughed almost aloud—he entered the gate of the Castle.

The tow-headed Briton who was performing sentry duty at the gate, though he challenged him like an automaton, was astonished at the sight of a uniform, the like of which, in style, brilliancy, and ornaments, he had never before seen.

"Be blowed to me, Bill," he soon afterwards remarked to a comrade of the guard-room, "if I didn't take 'im fer ole General Montcalm come back from blazes; 'e looked so grand an' Frenchy-like, an' come on me so sudden."

The Governor's aide-de-camp, de la Naudiere, a dashing Canadian officer, was almost as surprised at the sight of Lecour's uniform as the sentry, and receiving him with profound deference, read the passport which the new arrival handed him. He was not aware how closely the eyes of Germain watched his face. At the name "LeCour de Lincy, Esquire," in the paper he gave a slight start, but by the time he came to the end his manner recovered itself, and he greeted him cordially.