'No, Monseigneur; I am Fitzgerald.'

'Where is De Courcel, can you tell me?'

'He went on leave this morning, Monseigneur, to shoot in the forest of Soissons.'

'_Peste!_' muttered he angrily. 'Methinks you gentlemen of the Garde du Corps have little other idea of duty than in plotting how to evade it.

It was De Courcel's night of duty, was it not?'

'Yes, sir; I took it in his place.'

'Who relieves you?'

'The Chevalier de Monteroue, sir.'

'You are l'ecossais--at least they call you so, eh?'

'Yes, Monseigneur, they call me so,' said Gerald, flushing.

The Prince hesitated, turned to speak, and then moved away again. It was evident that he laboured under some irresolution that he could not master.

Resolved not to lose an opportunity so little likely to recur, Gerald advanced toward him, and, with an air of deep respect, said: 'If I might dare to approach your Royal Highness on such a pretext, I would say that some tidings of deepest moment have been brought this evening by an officer from Paris, charged to deliver them to the king; and that he yet waits unable to see his Majesty.'

'How--what--why has he not sent up his despatches?'

'He had none, sir; he was the bearer of a verbal message from the Duc de Ba.s.sompierre.'

'Impossible, sir; none could have dared to a.s.sume this responsibility.

Who told you this story?'

'I was present, sir, when the officer arrived--spoke with him--and heard M. de Breze say, "You can, perhaps, have an audience to-morrow."'

'He deserves the Bastille for this!'

'He would have deserved it, sir, yesterday.' 'How do you mean, sir?'

'That there is no Bastille to-day. The officer I mentioned saw it carried by the populace as he left Paris: the garrison are all cut to pieces.'

With something like a cry of agony, half-smothered by an effort, the Prince hurried from the room.

While the clock was yet striking, the sentinel in relief arrived, and Gerald was released from duty. As he wended his way along through room after room, he was struck by the air of silence and desertion around; nowhere were to be seen the groups of lounging courtiers and 'officiers de service.' A few inferior members of the household rose and saluted him, and even they wore something ominous and sad in their look, as though evil tidings were abroad.

A light, soft rain was falling as Gerald left the palace toward the pavilion, where Count Dillon's quarters were established. He knew it was impossible that the Count could yet have returned from Paris, but somehow he found himself repairing to the spot without well knowing why.

As he drew nigh he perceived a light in the little salon, and could distinguish the figure of a man writing at the table. Curious to learn if the Count had unexpectedly turned back, Gerald opened the door and entered. The person at the table turned quickly about, and to his utter confusion Gerald saw it was Monsieur.

'Come in, come in; you will, perhaps, spare me some writing.' cried he, in an easy, familiar tone: 'you may indeed read what I have just written.' and so saying he handed him a paper with these lines:

'Dear Count Dillon,--Give me the earliest and fullest information with respect to a young countryman of yours, Fitzgerald, called "L'ecossais."

May we employ him on a mission of secrecy and importance? It is of consequence--that is, it were far better--that the person intrusted with our commands were not a Frenchman----'

The Prince had but written so much as Gerald entered, and he now sat calmly watching the effect produced upon the young soldier as he read it.

'Am I to answer for myself, 'Monseigneur,' said he modestly.

'It is exactly what I intended,' was the calm reply.

'I can pledge for my fidelity and devotion, sir, but not for any skill or ability to execute your orders.'

'They will require little beyond speed and exact.i.tude. You know Paris well?'

'Perfectly, sir.'

'At the Rue de Turenne there is a small street called l'Avenue aux Abois--do you know it?--well, the second or third house, I am not sure which, is inhabited by a gentleman called the Count Mirabeau.'

'He who spoke so lately at the a.s.sembly?'

'The same. You will see him, and induce him to repair with you to St.

Cloud. Haste is everything. If your mission speed well, you can be at St. Cloud by noon to-morrow. It is possible that the Count may distrust your authority to make this appointment, for I dare not give you anything in writing; you will then show him this ring, which he will recognise as mine. Spare no entreaties to accomplish the object, nor, so far as you are able, permit anything to thwart it. Let nothing that you see or hear divert you from your purpose. Pay no attention to the events at Paris, whatever they be. You have one object--only one--that Count Mirabeau reach the Chateau de St. Cloud by the earliest moment possible, and in secrecy. Remember that, sir--in secrecy.'

'I cannot wear my uniform,' began Gerald.

'Of course not, nor suffer any trace of powder to remain in your hair.

I will send you clothes which will disguise you perfectly; and, if questioned, you can call yourself a peasant on the estate of the Mirabeaus, come up from Provence to see the Count. You must stain your hands, and be particular about every detail of your behaviour. There is but one thing more,' said he, after a moment's reflection; 'if Monsieur de Mirabeau refuse, if he even seek to defer the interview I seek for--but he will not, he dare not.'

'Still, Monseigneur, let me be provided for every emergency possible--what if he should refuse?'

'You will be armed, you will have your pistols--but no, no, under no circ.u.mstances,' muttered he below his breath. 'There will be then nothing for you to do, but to hasten back to me with the tidings.'

Monsieur arose as he said these words, and stood in apparently deep thought. 'I believe,' said he at last, 'that I have not forgotten anything. Ah, it were well to take one of the remount horses that are not branded--I will look to that.'

'If the Count should be from home, am I to seek for him elsewhere, sir?'

'That will depend upon your own address; if you are satisfied that you can defy detection. I leave all to yourself, Chevalier. It is a great and a holy cause you serve, and no words of mine can add to what your own heart will teach you. Only remember, that hours are like weeks, and time is everything.'

Gerald kissed the hand that Monsieur extended to him; and lighting him down the little stairs, saw him take his way across the park.

CHAPTER III. THE MISSION

The day had not yet dawned when Gerald, admirably disguised as a Provencal peasant, arrived at the Avenue aux Abois. The night had been hot and sultry, and many of the windows of the houses were left open; but from none save one were any lights seen to gleam. This one was brilliant with the glare of wax-lights; and the sounds of merriment from within showed it was the scene of some festivity. Light muslin curtains filled the s.p.a.ces of the open cas.e.m.e.nts, through which at moments the shadowy traces of figures could be detected.

While Gerald stood watching, with some curiosity, this strange contrast to the unbroken silence around, a rich deep voice caught his ear, and seemed to awaken within him some singular memory. Where, and when, and how he had heard it before, he knew not; but every accent and every tone struck him as well known.

'No, no, Mirabeau,' broke in another; 'when men throw down their houses, it is not to rebuild them with the old material.'

'I did not speak of throwing down,' interposed the same deep voice; 'I suggested some safe and easy alteration. I would have the doors larger, for easy access; the windows wider, for more light.'

'And more wood, generally, in the construction, for easy burning, I hope,' chimed in a third.