Classic Audiobook Collection - The Bronze Eagle - A Story of the Hundred Days by Baroness E. Orczy ~ Full Audiobook [adventure]

Episode Date: September 7, 2023

The Bronze Eagle - A Story of the Hundred Days by Baroness E. Orczy audiobook. Genre: adventure France, 1815: the Bourbons have been restored, loyalties are brittle, and then a startling rumor becomes reality - Napoleon has escaped Elba and is marching back toward Paris. In this charged moment, Crystal de Cambray, proud daughter of an uncompromising royalist exile, is being drawn into a brilliant match with Victor de Marmont, a polished young aristocrat who carefully hides a dangerous truth: his heart belongs to the Emperor. Standing between them is Bobby Clyffurde, an English gentleman whose affection for Crystal is complicated by his outsider's view of French politics and by his growing alarm at the webs of deception tightening around her family. As factions maneuver, friends become rivals, and private promises collide with public cause, Crystal is forced to question what honor demands when the country itself is changing shape overnight. Sweeping from glittering salons to shadowed meetings, The Bronze Eagle blends romance and intrigue with the thunder of history, as the Hundred Days rush toward an inevitable reckoning. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 00 (00:13:00) Chapter 01 (01:01:01) Chapter 02 (01:38:56) Chapter 03 (02:36:01) Chapter 04 (03:09:41) Chapter 05 (04:15:50) Chapter 06 (05:22:49) Chapter 07 (06:32:17) Chapter 08 (07:42:00) Chapter 09 (08:42:18) Chapter 10 (09:17:50) Chapter 11 (10:20:37) Chapter 12 (11:21:09) Chapter 13 (12:10:35) Chapter 14 (12:51:08) Chapter 15 (13:30:48) Chapter 16 (14:14:39) Chapter 17 (14:46:01) Chapter 18 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Bronze Eagle, a story of the Hundred Days by Baroness Emma Orksey. Prologue. The landing at Jewan The perfect calm of an early spring dawn lies over headland and sea. Hardly a ripple stirs the blue cheek of the bay. The softness of departing night lies upon the bosom of the Mediterranean, like the dew upon the heart of a flower. A silent dawn. Vails of transparent grays and purples and moves still conceal the distant horizon. Breathless calm rests upon the water, and that odd hush, which at times descends upon nature herself, when the finger of destiny marks an eventful hour.

But now the gray and the purple veils beyond the headland are lifted one by one. The myths of dawn rises upwards like the smoke of incense from some giant sensors swung by unseen, mighty hands. The sky above is of a translucent green studded with stars. that blink and now are slowly extinguished one by one. The green has turned to silver and the silver to lemon gold. The veils beyond the upland are flying in the wake of departing night. The lemon gold turns to glowing amber, anon to orange and crimson,

and far inland the mountain peaks peeping shyly through the mist, blush a vivid rose to find themselves so fair. And to the south, there where fiery sea blends and merges with fiery sky, a tiny black speck has just come into view. Larger and larger it grows as it draws nearer to the land. Now it seems like a bird with wings outspread, an eagle flying swiftly to the shores of France. In the bay, the fisher folk, who are making ready for their day's work, pause a moment as they haul up their nets with rough brown hands held above their eyes. They look out upon that black speck, curious, interested, for the ship is not one they have seen in these waters before. Tis the emperor come back.

from Elba, says someone. The men laugh and shrug their shoulders. That tale has been told so often in these parts during the past year. The good folk have ceased to believe in it. It has almost become a legend now. That story that the emperor was coming back, their emperor, the man with the battered hat and the gray red-and-goat. the people's emperor, he who led them from victory to victory, whose eagles soared above every capital and every tower in Europe, he who made France glorious and respected, her citizens, men, her soldiers, heroes. And with stately majesty, the dawn yields today, the last tones of orange have faded from the sky. It is once more of a translucent green, merging into sapphire overhead,

and the great orb in the east rises from out the trammels of the mist, and from awakening earth and sea comes the great love call, the triumphant call of day. And far away upon the horizon to the south, the black speck becomes more distinct and more clear. It takes shape, substance, life. It divides and multiplies. For now, there are three or four specks silhouetted against the sky, not three or four, but five. No, six, no, seven, seven black specks, which detach themselves one by one, one from another, and from the vagueness beyond. Experienced eyes scan the horizon with enthusiasm and excitement, which threatened to blur the clearness of their vision.

Anyone with an eye for sea-going craft can distinguish that top-sail schooner there, well ahead of the rest of the tiny fleet, skimming the water with swift-grateful, and immediately behind her the three-masted palaka. Hum, have we not seen her in these waters before? And the two graceful felucas, whose Latin sails look so like the outspread wings of a bird. But it is on the schooner that all eyes are riveted now. She skips along so fast that within an hour her penit. her pennant is easily distinguishable, red and white. The flag of Elba, of that diminutive toy kingdom,

which for the past 12 months has been ruled over by the mightiest conqueror this modern world has ever known, the flag of Elba. Then it is the emperor coming back. A crowd had gathered on the headland now, a crowd made up of barefooted fisherfolk, men, women, children, and of the laborers from the neighboring fields and vineyards. They have all come to greet the emperor, the man with the battered hat, and the gray red-and-goat, the curious, flashing eyes and mouth that always spoke genial words to the people of France. Traitors turned against. him, nay, de Marmont, Bernadotte, those on whom he had showered the full measure of his friendship, whom he had loaded with honors, with glory, and with wealth.

Foreign armies joined in coalition against France, and forced the people's emperor to leave his country, which he loved so well, had sent him to humiliation and to exile. but he had come back as all his people had always said that he would he had come back there was the top-sale schooner that was bringing him home so swiftly now another hour and the schooner's name can be deciphered quite easily la inconstant and that of the palaca la st asprey and beyond these le toil and St. Joseph, Carolyn, and the entire little fleet flies the flag of Elba. The emperor has come back. Barefooted fisher folk, whisper it among themselves. The laborers in the valley call the news to those upon the hills. Why, after another hour or so, there are those among the small knot who stand congregated on the highest point of the headland,

who swear that they can see the emperor standing on the deck of the la inconstant. He wears a black bicorn hat and his gray red and goat. He is pacing up and down the deck of the schooner. His hands held behind his back in the manner so familiar to the people of France, and on his hat is pinned the tricolor of France. Everyone on shore who is on the lookout for the schooner now can see the tricolor quite plainly. A mighty shout escapes the lusty throats of the men on the beach.

The women are on the verge of tears from sheer excitement, and that shout is repeated again and again, and sends its ringing echo from cliff to cliff and from fort to fort as the red and white pennant of the kingdom of Elba is hauled down from the ship's stern and the tricolor flag. The flag of liberty and of regenerate France is hoisted in its stead. The soft breeze from the south unfurls its folds, and these respond to his feet. his caress, the red, white, and blue make a trenchant note of color now against the tender hues of the sea, flaunting its triumphant message in the face of awakening nature. The eagle has left

the bounds of its narrow cage of Elba. It has taken wing over the blue Mediterranean. Within an hour, perhaps, or two, it will rest on the square church-touching. hour of Antibis, but not for long. Soon it will take to its adventurous flight again and soar over valley and mountain peak, from Church Belfrey to Church Belfry till it finds its resting place upon the towers of Notre Dame. One hour afternoon, the curtain has risen upon the first act of the most adventurous tragedy the world has ever known. Napoleon Bonaparte has landed in the Bay of Juan with 1,100 men and four guns to reconquer France and the sovereignty of the world. 600 of his old guard, six score of his Polish light cavalry, three or 400 Corsican chasseurses.

Thus did that sublime adventurer embark upon an expedition. the most mad, the most daring, the most heroic, the most egotistical, the most tragic, and the most glorious which recording destiny has ever written in the book of this world. The boats were lowered at one hour afternoon, and the landing was slowly and methodically begun, too slowly for the patience of the old guard, the old growlers with grower. grizzled mustache and furrowed cheeks, down which tears of joy and enthusiasm were trickling at sight of the shores of France. They were not going to wait for the return of those boats, which had conveyed the Polish troopers on shore. They took to the water and waited across the bay,

tossing the salt spray all around them as they trod the shingle, like so many shepherds, shaggy dogs enjoying a bath, and when 600 fur bonnets darkened the sands of the bay at the foot of the tower of La Gable, such a shout of Viva la Emperor went forth from 600 lusty throats that the midday spring air vibrated with kindred enthusiasm for miles and miles around. End of prologue. Chapter 1, Part 1 of The Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orxie. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The Glorious News, where the broad highway between Grenoble and Gap parts company from the turbulent draught,

and after crossing the ravine of Valks skirts the plateau of Lamont, with its magnificent panorama of forests and mountain peaks, a narrow bridle path strikes off at a sharp angle on the left and in wayward curves continues its length through the woods, upwards to the hamlet of Valks and the shrine of Notre Dame, Far away to the west, the valley of the drak lies encircled by the pine-covered slopes of the lawn's range, whilst towering some 7,000 and more feet up the snow-clad crest of Grand Moosh-roll glistens like a sea of myriads of rose-colored diamonds under the kiss of the morning sun. There was more than a hint of snow in the sharp, stinging air this afternoon, even down in the valley,

and now the keen wind from the northeast whipped up the faces of the two riders as they turned their horses at a sharp trot up the bridle path, though it was not long since the sun had first peeped out above the forests of Pelvo, the riders looked as if they had already a long journey to their credit. Their horses were covered with sweat and sprinkled with leather, and they themselves were plentifully bespattered with mud, for the road in the valley was soft after the thaw. But despite probable fatigue, both sat their horse with that ease and unconscious grace, which marks the man accustomed to hard and constant writing.

Though to the experienced eye, there would appear a vast difference in the style and manner in which each horseman handled his mount. One of them had the rigid precision of bearing, which denotes military training. He was young and slight of build with unruly dark hair, fluttered, round the temples from beneath his white sugar-loaf hat, and escaping the trammels of the neatly tied black silk bow at the nape of the neck. He held himself very erect and rode his horse on the curb. The reins gathered tightly in one gloved hand, and that hand held closely and almost immovably against his chest. The other sat more carelessly, though in no way more loosely in his saddle.

He gave his horse more freedom with a chain snaffle and reins hanging lightly between his fingers. He was obviously taller and probably older than his companion, broader of shoulder and fairer of skin. you might imagine him riding this same powerful mount across a sweep of open country, but his friend you would naturally picture to yourself in uniform on the parade ground. The riders soon left the valley of the drak behind them. On ahead, the path became very rocky, winding its way beside a riotous little mountain stream, Whilst higher up still peeping through the intervening trees, the whitewashed cottages of the tiny hamlet glimmered with dazzling clearness in the frosty atmosphere.

At a sharp bend of the road, which effectually revealed the foremost of these cottages distant less than two kilometers now, the younger of the two men drew rain suddenly, and lifting his hat with outstretched arm high above his head. He gave a long sigh, which ended in a kind of exultant call of joy. There is Notre Dame DeValc's. He cried at the top of his voice, and hat still in hand. He pointed to the distant hamlet. There's the spot where, before the sun darts its midday rays upon us, I shall hear great and glorious and authentic news of him. From a man who has seen him as lately as 48 hours ago, who has touched his hand, heard the sound of his voice, seen the look of confidence and of hope in his eyes.

Oh, he went on speaking with extraordinary volubility. It is all. too good to be true. Since yesterday, I have felt like a man in a dream. I haven't lived. I have scarcely breathed. I... The other man broke in upon his ravings with a good-humored growl. You have certainly behaved like an escaped lunatic since early this morning, my good de Marmont, he said dryly, don't you think that, as we shall have to mix again, with our fellow men presently. You might try to behave with some semblance of reasonableness.

But de Marmont only laughed. He was so excited that his lips trembled all the time. His hand shook and his eyes glowed just as if some inward fire was burning deep down in his soul. No, I can't, he retorted, I want to shout and to sing, and to cry, Viva la Emperor, till those frowning mountains over there echo with my shouts,

and I'll have none of your English stiffness and reserve and curbing of enthusiasm. Today, I am a lunatic, if you will, an escaped lunatic, if to be mad with joy, be a proof of insanity. Clifford, my dear friend, he added more soberly, I am honestly sorry for you today. Thank you, commented his companion, dryly. May I ask how I have deserved this genuine sympathy? Well, because you are an Englishman and not a Frenchman, said the younger man earnestly, because you, as an Englishman, must desire Napoleon's downfall, his humiliation, perhaps his death,

instead of exulting in his glory, trusting in his star, believing in him, following him. If I were not a Frenchman on a day like this, if my nationality or my patriotism demanded that I should fight against Napoleon, that I should hate him or vilify him, I firmly believe that I would turn my sword against myself, so shamed should I feel in my own eyes. It was the Englishman's turn to laugh, and he did it very heartily. His laugh was quite different to his friends. It had more enjoyment in it, more good temper, more appreciation of everything that tends to gaiety in life, and more direct defiance of what is gloomy. He, too, had reigned in his. He, too, had reigned in his his horse, presumably in order to listen to his friend's enthusiastic tirades. And as he did so,

there crept into his merry, pleasant eyes, a quaint look of half-contemptuous tolerance, tempered by kindly humor. Well, you see, my good de Marmont, he said, still laughing. You happen to be a Frenchman, a visionary and weaver of dreams. Believe me, he added more seriously, if you had the misfortune to be a prosy shopkeeping Englishman, you would certainly not commit suicide just because you could not enthuse over your favorite hero. But you would realize soberly and calmly that while Napoleon Bonaparte is allowed to rule over France or over any country, For the matter of that, there will never be peace in the world or prosperity in any land. The younger man made no reply.

A shadow seemed to gather over his face, a look almost of foreboding, as if fate that already lay in wait for the great adventurer had touched the young enthusiast with a warning finger. Whereupon Clifford resumed gaily once more. Shall we, he said, go slowly on now as far as the village? It is not yet 10 o'clock. Emery cannot possibly be here before noon. He put his horse to a walk de Marmont keeping close behind him,

and in silence the two men rode up the incline toward Notre Dame, DeValts. On ahead, the pines and beach and birch became more sparse, disclosing the great patches of moss-covered rock upon the slopes of Pelvo. On Tullifer, the eternal snows appeared wonderfully near in the brilliance of this early spring atmosphere. And here and there, on the roadside, bunches of wild crocus and of snowdrops were already visible, rearing their delicate corollas up against a background. of moss. The tiny village, still far away, lay in the peaceful hush of a Sunday morning. Only from the little chapel, which holds the shrine of Notre Dame, came the sweet, insistent sound of the bell,

calling the dwellers of these mountain fastnesses to prayer. The northeasterly wind was still keen, but the sun was gaining power as it rose well above palvou, and the sky over the dark forests and snow-crowned heights was of a glorious and vivid blue. The words, Aburge do Grand Dauphine, looked remarkably inviting, written in bold, shiny black characters on the white-washed wall

of one of the foremost houses in the village. The riders drew rain once more, this time in front of the Little Inn. And as a young ostler in blue blouse and sabots came hurriedly and officiously forward, whilst mine host in the same attire appeared in the doorway, the two men dismounted, unstrapped their mantles from their saddlebows, and loudly called for mulled wine. Mine host, typical of his calling and of his race, rubicund of cheek, portly of figure, and genial in manner, was over-anxious to please his guests. It was not often that gentlemen of such distinguished appearance called at the Auberge du Grand Dauphine, seeing that Notre Dame de Valks lies Purdue on the outskirts of the forests of

Pelvue, that the bridal path, having reached the village, leads nowhere save into the mountains, and that Lamot is close by with its medicinal springs and its fine hostels. But these two highly distinguished gentlemen evidently meant to make a stay of it. They even spoke of a friend who would come and join them later when they would expect a substantial designeur to be served with the best wine mine host could put before them. Annette, mine host's dark-eyed daughter, was all a flutter at sight of these gallant strangers, one of them with such fiery eyes and vivacious ways, and the other so tall and so dignified, with fair skin, well bronzed by the sun and large, firm mouth that had such such a little,

a pleasant smile on it. Her eyes sparkled at sight of them both, and her glib tongue rattled away at truly astonishing speed. Would a well-baked omelet and a bit of friccundoo suit the gentleman admirably? Ah, well then, that could easily be done. And now, in the meanwhile, only good, mulled wine, that would present no different. either five minutes for it to get really hot as Annette had made some the previous day for her father who had been on a tiring errand up to Lamurr and had come home cold and starved and it was specially good all the better for having been hotted up once or twice and the cloves and nutmeg having soaked in for nearly four and twenty hours. Where would the gentlemen have it outside in the sunshine?

Well, it was very cold and the wind biting, but the gentleman had mantles, and she, Annette, would see that the wine was piping hot. Five minutes, and everything would be ready. What? The tall, fair-skinned gentleman wanted to wash? What a funny idea? Hadn't he washed this morning when he got up he had well then why should he want to wash again she annette managed to keep herself quite clean all day and didn't need to wash more than once a day but there strangers had funny ways with them she guessed at once that masseur was a stranger he had such a fair skin and light brown hair Well, so long as Massur wasn't English, for the English she detested. Why did she detest the English? Because they made war against France. Well, against the Emperor anyhow.

And she, Annette, firmly believed that if the English could get hold of the Emperor, they would kill him. Oh, yes, they would put him on an island, peopled by cannibals, and let him be eaten, bones, marrow, and all. And Annette's dark eyes grew very round and very big as she gave forth her opinion upon the barbarous hatred of the English for La Emperor. She prattled on very gaily and very volubly while she dragged a couple of chairs out into the open and placed them well in the lee of the wind

and brought a couple of pewter mugs, which she sat on the table. She was very much interested in the tall gentleman who had availed himself of her suggestion to use the pump at the back of the house since he was so bent on washing himself, and she asked many questions about him from his friend. 10 minutes later, the steaming wine was on the table in a huge china bowl, and the Englishman was ladling it out with a long-handled spoon, and filling the two mugs with the deliciously scented cordial.

Annette had disappeared into the house in response to a peremptory call from her father. The chapel bell had ceased to ring long ago, and she would miss hearing Mass altogether today, and Massaure Le Curie, who came on alternate Sundays all the way from Lamat to celebrate divine service, would be very angry indeed with her. Well, that couldn't be helped. Annette would have loved to go to Mass, but the two distinguished gentlemen, expected their friend to arrive at noon and the day jeanere to be quite ready by then. So she comforted her conscience with a few prayers said on her knees

before the picture of the Holy Virgin, which hung above her bed, after which she went back to her housewifely duty with a light heart. But not before she had decided an important point in her mind, namely which of those two handsome gentlemen she liked the best, the dark one with the fiery eyes that expressed such bold admiration of her young charms, or the tall one with the earnest gray eyes who looked as if he could pick her up like a feather and carry her running all the way to the summit of tale affair. Annette had indeed made up her mind

that the giant with the soft brown hair and winning smile was on the whole the more attractive of the two. The two friends with mantles wrapped closely round them, sat outside the Grand Dauphine, all unconscious of the problem which had been disturbing Annette's busy little brain. The steaming wine had put plenty of warmth into their bones, and though both had been silent while they sipped their first mugful, it was obvious that each was busy with his own thoughts. Then suddenly the young Frenchman put his mug down and leaned with both elbows upon the rough deal table

because he wanted to talk confidentially with his friend and there was never any knowing what prying ears might be about. I suppose he said, even as a deep frown told of puzzling thoughts within the mind, I suppose that when England hears the news, she will up and at him again, attacking him, snarling at him, even before he has had time to settle down upon his reconquered throne. That throne is not reconquered yet, my friend, retorted the Englishman dryly. nor has the news of this mad adventure reached England so far. But when it does, broke in de Marmont somberly,

your castlery will rave, and your Wellington will gather up his armies to try and crush the hero whom France loves and acclaims. Will France acclaim the hero? There's the question. The army will, the people will, Clifford shrugged his shoulders. The army, yes, he said slowly, but the people, what people, the peasantry of province, and the Dauphine, perhaps, what about the townfolk, your mergers and prefits, your traits people, your shopkeepers who have been ruined by the wars which your hero has made

to further his own ambition? Don't say that, Clifford, once more broke in, DeMarmont, and this time more vehemently than before. When you speak like that, I could almost forget our friendship. Whether I say it or not, my good DeMarmont rejoined Clifford with his good-humored smile. You will, anyhow, within the next few months, days perhaps, bury our friendship beneath the ashes of your patriotism. No one, believe me, he added more earnestly, has a greater admiration for the genius of Napoleon than I have. His love of France is sublime, his desire for her glory superb. But underlying his love of country, there is the love of self, the mad desire to rule, to conquer, to humiliate. It led him to Moscow and thence to Elba. It has brought him

back to France, it will lead him once again to the capital, no doubt, but as surely too, it will lead him on to the Tarpean rock, whence he will be hurled down this time, not only bruised, but shattered, a fallen hero, and you will, a broken idol, for posterity to deal with in aftertime as it lists, And England would like to be the one to give the hero the final push, said de Marmont, not without a sneer. The people of England, my friend, hate and fear Bonaparte, as they have never hated and feared anyone before in the whole course of their history. And tell me, have we not cause enough to hate him? For 15 years, has he not tried to ruin us? to bring us to our knees, tried to throttle our commerce, break our might upon the sea. He wanted to make a slave of Britain, and Britain proved unconquerable. Believe me, we hate your hero less than

he hates us. He had spoken with a good deal of earnestness, but now he added more lightly as if in answer to DeMar Mont's glowering look. At the same time, he said, I doubt if there is a single English gentleman living at the present moment, let alone the army, who would refuse ungrudging admiration to Napoleon himself and to his genius. But as a nation, England has her interest to safeguard. She has suffered enough, and through him in her commerce and her prosperity in the past 20 years, she must have peace now at any cost. Ah, I know, side the other, a nation of shopkeepers. Yes, we are that, I suppose. We are shopkeepers, most of us. I didn't mean to use the word in any derogatory sense, protested Victor de Marmont, with the ready politeness peculiar to his race.

Why, even you, I don't see why you should say even you, broke in Clifford quietly. I am a shopkeeper, nothing more. I buy goods and sell them again. I buy the gloves, which our friend Messore de Mullen manufactures at Grenoble, and sell them to any London Draper, who chooses to buy them a very mean and ungentlemanly occupation, is it not? He spoke French with perfect fluency, and only with the merest suspicion of a drawl in the intonation of the vowels, which suggested, rather than proclaimed, his nationality. And just now there was not the slightest tone of bitterness apparent in his deep-toned, and mellow voice. Once more, his friend would have protested, but he put up a restraining hand.

Oh, he said with a smile, I don't imagine for a moment that you have the same prejudices as our mutual friend, Massor Lecomte de Cambre, who must have made a very violent sacrifice to his feelings when he admitted me as a guest to his own table. I am sure he must often think that the servants' hall is the proper place for me. The Comte de Cambrai retorted de Marmont with a sneer is full up to his eyes with the prejudices and arrogance of his caste. It is men of his type, and not Marat or Robespierre, who made the rest of the rest of his own. revolution, who goaded the people of France into becoming something worse than man-devouring beasts.

And mind you, 20 years of exile did not sober them, nor did contact with democratic thought in England and America teach them the most elementary lessons of common sense. If the emperor had not come back today, we should be once more working. up for revolution, more terrible this time, more bloody and vengeful, if possible, than the last. Then, as Clifford made no comment on this peroration, the younger man resumed more lightly. And knowing the Comte de Cambrai's prejudices, as I do, imagine my surprise after I had met you in his house as an honored guest and on what appeared to be in. intimate terms of friendship to learn that you, in fact, that I was nothing more than a shopkeeper,

broke in Clifford with a short laugh, nothing better than our mutual friend, Massour Dumolin, glovemaker of Grenoble, a highly worthy man whom Massor Lecomte de Camry esteems somewhat lower than his butler. It certainly must have surprised you very much. much. Well, you know, old DeCambre has a horror of anything that pertains to trade and an avowed contempt for everything that he calls bourgeois. There's no doubt about that, assented Clifford fervently. Perhaps he does not know of your connection with gloves, with business people in Grenoble, generally. Oh, yes, he does, replied the Englishman. quietly. Well, then, queried de Marmont. Then as his friend sat there silent with that quiet,

good-humored smile lingering round his lips, he added apologetically, perhaps I am indiscreet, but I never could understand it, and you English are so reserved, that I never told you how Massor La Compt de Cambre, commander of the Order of the Holy Ghost, Grand Cross of the Order De Lis, hereditary Grand Chamberlain of France, etc., came to sit at the same table as a vendor and buyer of gloves, said Clifford Gaily. There's no secret about it. I owe the Compt's exalted condescension to certain letters of recommendation, which he could not very well disregard. Oh, as to that, quoth de Marmont, with a shrug of the shoulders, people like the decambres have their own codes of courtesy and of friendship.

In this case, my good de Marmont, it was the code of ordinary gratitude that imposed its dictum even upon the autocratic and aristocratic. Copt de Cambre. Gratitude sneered de Marmot in a decambre. M. Le Compte de Cambray, said Clifford, with slow emphasis, his mother, his sister, his brother-in-law, and two of their faithful servants were rescued from the very foot of the guillotine by a band of heroes known in those days as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. I knew that. I knew that. said de Marmont quietly, then perhaps you also knew that their leader was Sir Percy Blakeney, a prince among gallant English gentlemen and my dead father's friend. When my business affairs sent me

to Grenoble, Sir Percy warmly recommended me to the man whose life he had saved. What could M. M. La Camp de Cambrai do, but receive me as a friend. You see, my credentials were exceptional and unimpeachable. Of course, ascended de Marmont. Now I understand, but you will admit that I have had grounds for surprise. You, who were the friend of Dumolin, a tradesman, and avowed Bonapartist, two unpardonable crimes in the eyes of Mouser Lecomte de Cambre. He added, with a return to his former bitterness, you to be seated at his table, and to shake him by the hand. Why, man, if he knew that I have remained faithful to the emperor, he paused abruptly, and his somewhat full, sensitive lips were pressed tightly together as if to suppress an insistent outburst of passion.

But Clifford frowned, and when he turned away from de Marmont, it was in order to hide a harsh look of contempt. Surely he said, you have never led the comp to suppose that you are a royalist. I have never led him to suppose anything, but he has taken my political convictions for granted, rejoined de Marmont. Then suddenly, a look of bitter resentment darkened his face, making it appear hard and lined and considerably older. My uncle, Marshal de Marmont, Duke de Ragoose, was an abominable traitor. He went on with ill-repressed, Hemmence. He betrayed his emperor, his benefactor, and his friend. It was the vilest treachery that has ever disgraced an honorable name. Paris could have held out easily for another four and 20 hours,

and by that time, the emperor would have been back, but de Marmont gave her over willfully, scurvely to the allies. But for his abominable act, of cowardice, the emperor never would have had to endure the shame of his temporary exile at Elba. And Louis de Bourbon would never have had the chance of wallowing for 12 months upon the throne of France. But that which is a source of irreparable shame to me is a virtue in the eyes of all these royalists de Marmont's treachery against the emperor, has, placed all his kindred in the forefront of those who now lick the boots of that infamous bourbon dynasty, and it did not suit the plans of the Bonapartist party that we in the provinces should claim our

faith too openly until such time as the emperor returned. And if the Comte de Cambrai had known that you are just an ardent Bonapartist, suggested Clifford. calmly. He would long before now have had me kicked out by his lackeys, broke in de Marmont, with ever-increasing bitterness as he brought his clenched fist crashing down upon the table, while his dark eyes glowed with a fierce and passionate resentment. For men like DeCambre, there is only one caste, the nobles, one religion, the Catholic, one creed, adherence to the bourbons. All else is scum, trash, beneath contempt, hardly human. Oh, if you knew how I loathe these people, he continued, speaking volubly, and in a voice shaking

with suppressed excitement. They have learnt nothing, these aristocrats, nothing, I tell you. The terrible reprisals of the revolution, which culminated in that appalling reign of terror, have taught them absolutely nothing. They have not learned the great lesson of the revolution, that the people will no longer endure their arrogance and their pretensions, that the old regime is dead. Dead, the regime of oppression and pride and intolerance. They have learned nothing.

He reiterated with ever-growing excitement, nothing. Humanity begins with the noblesse, is still their watchword today, as it was before the irate people sent hundreds of them to perish miserably on the guillotine. The rest of mankind to them is only cattle made to toil for the well-being of their class. Oh, I loat them, I tell you, I loat them from the bottom of my soul. and yet you and your kind are rapidly becoming at one with them, said Clifford, his quiet voice in strange contrast to the other man's violent agitation. No, we are not, protested de Marmont emphatically.

The men whom Napoleon created marshals and peers of France have been openly snubbed at the court of Louis XIII, nay, who is prince of, Moscow, and next to Napoleon himself, the greatest soldier of France, has seen his wife treated little better than a chambermaid by the Duchess de Angoulin, and the ladies of the old nobles. My uncle is Marshal of France, and Duke de Ragoos, and I am the heir to his millions, but the Comte de Cambrai will always consider it a Masalayan. for his daughter to marry me. The note of bitter resentment, of wounded pride, and smoldering hatred became more and more marked while he spoke. His voice now sounded hoarse, and his throat seemed dry.

Presently he raised his mug to his lips and drank eagerly, but his hand was shaking visibly as he did this, and some of the wine was spilled on the table. There were, was silence for a while outside the little inn, silence which seemed full of portent, for through the pure mountain air, there was wafted the hot breath of men's passions, fierce, dominating, challenging, love, hatred, prejudices, and contempt. All were portrayed on de Marmont's mobile face. They glowed in his dark eyes and breathed through his quivering nostrils. Now he rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. His nervy fingers played a tattoo against his teeth, clenched together like those of some young

feline creature which sees its prey coming along and is snarling at the sight. Clifford, with those deep-set, earnest gray eyes of his, was silently watching his friend. His hand did not shake, nor did the breath come any quicker from his broad chest. Yet deep down, behind the wide brow, behind those same overshadowed eyes, a keen observer would of a surety have detected the signs of a latent volcano of passions all the more strong and virile as they were kept in perfect control. It was he who presently broke the silence, and his voice was quite steady when he spoke, though perhaps a trifle more toneless, more dead than usual. And he said, what of Mademoiselle Crystal in all this?

Crystal, queried the other curtly, what about her? She is an ardent royalist, more strong in her convictions and her enthusiasms than women usually are. And what of that rejoined? de Marmont fiercely, I love Crystal. But when she learns that you, she shall not learn it, rejoined the other cynically, we sign our marriage contract tonight. The wedding is fixed for Tuesday. Until then, I can hold my peace. An exclamation of hot protest almost escaped the Englishman's lips. His hand, which rested on the table, became so tightly clenched. And that the hard knuckles looked as if they would burst through their fetters of sinew and skin,

and he made no pretense at concealing the look of burning indignation which flashed from his eyes. But man, he exclaimed, a deception such as you propose is cruel and monstrous in view, too, of what has occurred in the past few days, in view of what may happen, if the news which we have heard is true. In view of all that, my friend retorted De Marmont firmly,

the old regime has had its nine days of wonder and of splendor. The emperor has come back. We who believe in him, who have remained true to him in his humiliation and in his misfortunes, may once more raise our heads and loudly proclaim our loyalty. the return of the emperor will once more put his dukes and his marshals in their rightful place

on a level with the highest nobility of France. The Comte de Cambrai will realize that all his hopes of regaining his fortune through the favors of the bourbons have by force of circumstances come to not. Like most of the old noblesse who emigrated, he is without a sue. He may choose to look on me with contempt, but he will no longer desire to kick me out of his house, for he will be glad enough to see the Cambrai scotch in regilt with de Marmont gold. But Mademoiselle Crystal insisted Clifford, almost appealingly, for his whole soul had revolted at the cynicism of the other man. Crystal has listened to that ape.

St. Janice, replied to Marmont dryly, one of her own cast, a marquee with 16 quarterings to his family, a scutcheon, and not a sue in his pockets. She is very young and very inexperienced. She has seen nothing of the world as yet, nothing. She was born and brought up in exile in England in the myths of that narrow society formed by impecunious emigraise. And shopkeeping Englishman, murmured Clifford, under his breath. She could never have married St. Janus, reiterated Victor de Marmont, with deliberate emphasis. The man hasn't a sue.

Even Crystal realized from the first that nothing ever could have come. of that boy and girl dallying. The Comte never would have consented. Perhaps not, but she, Mademoiselle Crystal, would she ever have consented to marry you if she had known what your convictions are? Crystal is only a child, said de Marmont, with a light shrug of the shoulders.

She will learn to love me presently when St. Janice has disappeared out of her little world. and she will accept my convictions as she has accepted me, submissive to my will as she was to that of her father. Once more a hot protest of indignation rose to Clifford's lips, but this too he smothered resolutely. What was the use of protesting? Could he hope to change with a few arguments the whole cynical nature of a man?

And what right had he even to interfere? The Comte de Cambre and Mademoiselle Crystal were nothing to him. In their minds, they would never look upon him even as an equal, let alone as a friend. So the bitter words died upon his lips. And you have been content to win a wife on such terms was all that he said, I have had to be content. was de Marmont's retort. Crystal is the only woman I have ever cared for. She will love me in time, I doubt not, and her sense of duty will make her forget St. Janus quickly enough. Then, as Clifford made no further comment, silence fell once more between the two men. Perhaps even De Marmont felt that somehow, during the past few moments,

the slender bond of friendship which similarity of tastes and a certain similarity of political ideals had foraged between him and the stranger had been strained to snapping point, and this for a reason which he could not very well understand. He drank another draft of wine and gave a quick sigh of satisfaction with the world in general and also with himself for he did not feel that he had done or said anything which could offend the keenest susceptibilities of his friend. He looked with a sudden sense of astonishment at Clifford as if he were only seeing him now for the first time. His keen, dark eyes took in with a rapid glance, the Englishman's powerful personality, the square shoulders, the head well erect, the strong,

strong Anglo-Saxon chin firmly set, the slender hands always in repose. In the whole attitude of the man, there was an air of willpower, which had never struck de Marmont quite so forcibly as it did now, and a virility which looked as ready to challenge fate as it was able to conquer her if she proved adverse. And just now there was a curious look in those deep-set eyes, a look of contempt or of pity. De Marmont was not sure which, but somehow the look worried him, and he would have given much to read the thoughts which were hidden behind the high square brow. However, he asked no questions, and thus the silence remained unbroken for some time, save for the sowing of the northeast wind as it whistled through the pines, whilst from the tiny chapel, which held the shrine of Notre Dame,

De Valks, came the sound of a soft-toned bell ringing the midday Angeles. Just then round that same curve in the road, where the two riders had paused an hour, ago in sight of the little hamlet, a man on horseback appeared riding at a brisk trot up the rugged, stony path. Victor de Marmont woke from his reverie. There's Emery, he cried. He jumped to his feet. Then he picked up his hat from the table, where he had laid it down, tossed it up into the air as high as it would go, and shouted with all his might. Viva la Emperor. End of Chapter 1, Part 1. Chapter 1, Part 2 of The Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orxie. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah.

The man who now drew rain with abrupt clumsiness in front of the a barge looked hot, tired, and travel-stained. His face was covered with sweat. and his horse with leather. The lapel of his coat was torn. His breeches and boots were covered with half-frozen mud, but having brought his horse to a halt, he swung himself out of the saddle with the brisk air of a boy who has enjoyed his first ride across country. Surgeon, Captain Emery, was a man well over 40, but today his eyes glowed with that concentrated fire, which burns in the heart at 20, and he shook de Marmont by the hand

with a vigor which made the younger man wince with the pain of that iron grip. My friend, Mr. Clifford, an English gentleman, said Victor de Marmont, hastily in response to a quick look of suspicious inquiry, which flashed out from under Emery's bushy, eyebrows. You can talk quite freely, Emery, and for God's sake, tell us your news. But Emery could hardly speak. He had been riding hard for the past three hours. His throat was parched,

and through it his voice came up hoarse and raucous. Nevertheless, he at once began talking in short, jerky sentences. He landed on Wednesday. He said, I parted from him on Friday. At Castelan, you had my message? This morning early, we came at once. I thought we could talk better here first, but I was spent last night. I had to sleep at course. So I sent to you, but now in heaven's name, give me something to drink. While he drank eagerly and greedily of the cold-spiced wine, which Clifford had served out to him, he still scrutinized the Englishman closely from under his frowning and bushy eyebrows. Clifford's winning glance, however, seemed to have conquered his mistrust, for presently, after he had put his mug down again,

he stretched out a cordial hand to him. Now that our emperor is back with us, he said, as if in apology for his former suspicions, we, his friends, are bound to look askance at every Englishmen we meet. Of course you are, said Clifford, with his habitual, good-humored smile as he grasped surgeon Captain Emery's extended hand. It is the hand of a friend I am grasping, insisted Emery, of a personal friend, if you will call him so, replied Clifford, politically I hardly count, you see, I am just a looker on at the game. The surgeon captain's keen eyes under the their bushy brows shot a rapid glance at the tall, well-knit figure of the Englishman. You are not a fighting man, he queried, much amazed. No, replied Clifford dryly. I am only a tradesman.

Your news, Emery, your news. Here broke in Victor de Marmont, who, during the brief colloquy between his two friends, had been hardly able to keep his excitement in check. Emory turned away, from the other man in silence. Clearly, there was something about that fine, noble-looking fellow who proclaimed himself a tradesman, while that splendid physique of his should be at his country's service, which still puzzled the worthy army surgeon. But he was primarily very thirsty, and secondly, as eager to impart his news as de Marmont was to hear it. So now, without wasting any further words on less important matter, he sat down close to the table and stretched his short, thick legs out before him. My news is of the best, he said with lusty fervor. We left Porto Farahoe

on Sunday last, but only landed on Wednesday, as I told you, for we were severely becalmed in the Mediterranean. We came on shore at Antibis at midday. At least. At least. of March 1st and bivouacked in an olive grove on the way to Cairns. That was a sight good for sore eyes, my friends, to see him sitting there by the campfire. His feet firmly planted upon the soil of France. What a man, sir, what a man. He continued, turning directly to Clifford. On board the inconstant he had composed and dictated his proclamation to the army, to the soldiers of France, the finest piece of prose, sir, I have ever read in all my life, but you shall judge of it, sir, you shall judge. And with hands shaking with excitement, he fumbled in the bulging pocket of his coat and extracted therefrom a roll of loose papers roughly tied together with a piece of, of tape. You shall read it, sir, he went on mumbling, while his trembling fingers vainly tried to undo the knot in the tape. You shall read it, and then, mayhap, you'll tell me if your pit was ever half

so eloquent. Curse these knots, he exclaimed angrily. Will you allow me, sir? said Clifford quietly, and with steady hand and firm fingers, he undid. the refractory knots and spread the papers out upon the table. Already de Marmont had given a cry of loyalty and of triumph. His proclamation, he exclaimed, and a sigh of infinite satisfaction, born of enthusiasm and of hero worship, escaped his quivering lips. The papers bore the signature of that name, which had once been all-powerful in its magical charge. It was, and it's magical charmed. arm, at sound of which Europe had trembled and crowns had felt insecure, the name which men had breathed, nay, still breathed, either with passionate loyalty or with bitter hatred, Napoleon.

There were copies of the proclamation, wherewith the heroic adventurer, confident in the power of his diction, meant to reconquer the hearts of that army whom he had once led. to such glorious victories. De Marmont read the long document through from end to end in a half-audible voice. Now and again, he gave a little cry, a cry of loyalty at mention of those victories of Austerlitz and Jenna, of Wagram, and of Ekmul, at mention of those imperial eagles which had led the armies of France conquering and glorious throughout the length and breadth of Europe, or a cry of shame and horror at mention of the traitor whose name he bore and who had delivered France into the hands of strangers and his emperor into those of his enemies. And when the young enthusiast had read the

proclamation through to the end, he raised the paper to his lips and fervently kissed the imprint of the revered name Napoleon. Now, tell me more about him, he said finally, as he leaned both elbows on the table and fastened his glowing eyes upon the equally heated face of surgeon Captain Emery. Well, resumed the latter, as I told you, we bivouacked among the olive trees on the way to Cairns. The emperor had already sent Cambroon on ahead with 40 of his grenadiers to commandeer what horses and mules he could

as we were not able to bring many across from Porto Farahoe. Cambron, he said, you shall be in command of the vanguard in this the finest campaign which I have ever undertaken. My orders are to you that you do not fire

a single unnecessary shot. Remember that I mean to reconquer my imperial crown without shedding one drop of French blood. Oh, he is in excellent health and in excellent spirits. Such a man, such fire in his eyes, such determination in his actions, younger, bolder than ever. I tell you, friends, continued,

the worthy surgeon captain, as he brought the palm of his hand flat down upon the table with an emphatic bang, that it is going to be a triumphal march from end to end of France. The people are mad about him at Roca Vignan, just outside Cairns, where we bivouacked on Thursday, men, women, and children were flocking round to see him, pressing close to his knees, bringing him wine and flowers, and the people were crying, Viva la Emperor, even in the streets of Gras. But the army man, the army, cried de Marmont, the garrisons of Antibis and Cans and Gras.

Did the men go over to him at once and the officers? We hadn't encountered the army yet when I parted from him on Friday, retorted Emery with equal impatience. We didn't go into Antibis, and we of us. avoided cans. You must give him time. The people in the towns wouldn't at first believe that he had come back. General Messina, who is in command at Marseilles, thought fit to spread the news that a band of Corsican pirates had landed on the literal and were marching inland, devastating villages as they marched. The peasants from the mountains were the first to believe that the emperor had really come, and they wandered down in their hundreds to see him first and to spread the news of his

arrival ahead of him. By the time we reached Castellan, the mayor was not only ready to receive him, but also to furnish him with 5,000 rations of meat and bread, with horses and with mules. Since then, he has been at Degu and at Cisteron. Be sure that the garretion. of those cities have rallied round his eagles by now. Then whilst Emery paused for breath, de Marmont queried eagerly, and so there has been no contretemps. Nothing serious so far, replied the other. We had to abandon our guns at Gras. The emperor felt that they would impede the rapidity of his progress, and our second day's march was rather trying. The mountain pass. The mountain pass were covered in snow. The lancers had to lead their horses, sometimes along the edge of sheer

precipices. They were hampered, too, by their accoutrements, their long swords and their lances. Others, who had no mounts, had to carry their heavy saddles and bridles on those slippery paths, but he was walking to stick in hand, losing his footing now and then, just as they did, and once he nearly rolled down one of those cursed precipices, but always smiling, always cheerful, always full of hope. At Antibby's young Casabianca got himself arrested with 20 grenadiers. They had gone into the town to requisition a few provisions. When the news reached us, some of the younger men tried to persuade the emperor

to march on the city and carry the place. by force of arms before Casa Bianca's misfortune got bruited abroad. No, he said, every minute is precious. All we can do is to get along faster than the evil news can travel. If half my small army were captive at Antibis, I would still move on. If every man were a prisoner in the citadel, I would march on alone. That's the man, my friends, cried Emery, with ever-growing enthusiasm. That's our emperor. And he cast a defiant look on Clifford, as much as to say, bring on your Wellington and your armies now. The emperor has come back. The whole of France will know how to guard him. Then he turned to De Marmont. And now,

tell me about Grenoble, he said. Grenoble had an inkling of the news already last night. said to Marmont, whose enthusiasm was no whit cooler than that of Emery. Marchand has been secretly assembling his troops. He has sent to Chamborei for the 7th and 11th regiment of the line, and to Vienne for the 4th Hussars. Inside Grenoble, he has the 5th Infantry Regiment, the 4th of artillery, and 3rd of engineers with a train squadron. This morning, he is holding a council of war, and I know that he has been in constant communication with Messenna.

The news is gradually filtering through into the town. People stand at the street corners and whisper among themselves. The word la Emperor seemed wafted upon this morning's breeze, and by tonight we'll have the Emperor's proclamation to his people, pinned up on the walls of the Hotel de Ville, exclaimed Emery, and with hands still trembling with excitement, he gathered the precious papers once more together and slipped them back into his coat pocket. Then he made a visible effort to speak more quietly, and now he said for one very important matter, which, by the way, was the chief reason for my asking you, my good de Marmont, to meet me here before my getting to Grenoble. Yes, what is it? Quiried

De Marmont eagerly. Surgeon Captain Emery leaned across the table. Instinctively, he dropped his voice, and though his excitement had not abated one jot, though his eyes still glowed and his hands still fidgeted nervously, he had forced himself at last to a semblance of calm. The matter is one of money, he said slowly. The emperor has some funds at his disposal, but as you know, that scurvy government of the restoration never handed him over one single sue of the yearly revenue, which it had solemnly agreed and sworn to pay to him with regularity. Now, of course, he continued still more emphatically. We who believe in our emperor, as we believe in God, We are absolutely convinced that the army will rally round him to a man.

The army loves him and has never ceased to love him. The army will follow him to victory and to death. But the most loyal army in the world cannot subsist without money, and the emperor has little or none. The news of his triumphant march across France will reach Paris long before he does, it will enable his most excellent and most corpulent majesty, King Louis, to skip over to England or to Ghent with everything in the treasury on which he can lay his august hands. Now, de Marmont, do you perceive what the serious matter is, which caused me to meet you here

25 kilometers from Grenoble, where I ought to be at the present moment? Yes, I do perceive. receive very grave trouble there, said de Marmont, with characteristic ensuciance, but one which need not greatly worry the Emperor. I am rich, thank God, and may God bless you, my dear de Marmont for the thought, broke in Emery earnestly, but what may be called a large private fortune is as nothing before the needs of an army. Soon, of course, the Emperor will be in peace. peaceful possession of his throne, and will have all the resources of France at his command. But before that happy time arrives, there will be much fighting, and many days, weeks perhaps, of anxiety to go through. During those weeks, the army must be paid and fed, and your private

fortune, my dear de Marmont, would even if the emperor were to accept your sacrifice, which is not likely, be but as a drop in the mighty ocean of the cost of a campaign. What are two or even three millions, my poor dear friend? It is 40, 50 millions that the emperor wants. De Marmont this time had nothing to say. He was staring moodily and silently before him. Now, that is what I have come to talk to you about, continued Emery, after a few seconds pause. during which he had once more thrown a quick, half-suspicious glance on the impassive, though obviously interested face of the Englishman, always supposing that masseur here is on our side. Neither on your side nor on the other captain, said Bobby Clifford, with a slight tone of impatience.

I am a mere tradesman, as I have had the honor to tell you, a spectator at this game of political conflicts. M. M. de Marmont knows this well, else he had not asked me to accompany him today, nor offered me a mount to enable me to do so. But if you prefer it, he added lightly, I can go for a stroll, while you discuss these graver matters. He would have risen from the table, only that Emery immediately detained him. No offense, sir, said the surgeon. Captain bluntly. None, I give you my word, assented the Englishman. It is only natural that you should wish to discuss such grave matters in private. Let me go and see to our de Janeiro in the meanwhile.

I feel sure that the friccundoo is done to a turn by now. I'll have it dished up in ten minutes. I pray you take no heed of me. He added in response to murmured protestation. from both to Marmont and Emery. I would much prefer to know nothing of these grave matters, which you are about to discuss. This time, Emery did not detain him as he rose and turned to go within in order to find mine host or Annette. The two Englishmen took no further heed of him. Wrapped up in the all-engrossing subject matter, they remained seated at the table, leaning across it, their faces close to one another, their eyes dancing with excitement, questions, and answers. As soon as the stranger's back was turned, already tumbling out in

confusion from their lips. Clifford turned to have a last look at them before he went into the house, and while he did so, his habitual, pleasant, gently ironical smile still hovered round his lips. But anon, a quickly suppressed sigh, chased the smile away, and over his face there crept a strange shadow, a look of longing and of bitter regret. It was only for a moment, however. The next he had passed his hand slowly across his forehead, as if to wipe away that shadow and smooth out those lines of unspoken pain.

Soon his cheerful voice was heard, echoing, along the low rafters of the little inn, loudly calling for Annette and for news of the baked omelet and the friccandu. You really could have talked quite freely before Mr. Clifford, my good Emery, said de Marmont as soon as Bobby had disappeared inside the inn. He really takes no part in politics. He is a friend alike of the Comte de Cambre and of Glomte de Cambrai and of lovemaker Dumolin. He has visited our Bonapartist club. Dumoulin has vouched for him. You see, he is not a fighting man. I suppose that you are equally sure that he is not an English spy, remarked Emery dryly. Of course, I am sure, asserted de Marmont emphatically. Dumoulin has known him

for years in business, though this is the first time that Clifford has visited Grenoble. He is in the glove trade in England. His interests are purely commercial. He came here with introductions to the Comp de Cambrai from a mutual friend in England, who seems to be a personage of vast importance in his own country and greatly esteemed by the Comp. Else, you may be sure that that stiff-necked aristocrat would never have received a tradesman as a guest in his house. But it was in Dumlin's house that I first met Bobby Clifford. We took a liking to one another, and since then have ridden a great deal together. He is a splendid horseman, and I was very glad to be able to offer him a mount at different times.

But our political conversations have never been very heated or very serious. Clifford maintains a detached impersonal attitude, both to the Bonapartist and the royalist cause. I asked him to accompany me this morning, and he gladly consented, for he dearly loves a horse. I assure you, you might have said anything before him. A, bien, I'm sorry if I've been obstinate and ungracious, said the surgeon captain, but in a tone that obfirm. belied his words, though frankly, I am very glad that we are alone for the moment. He paused, and with a wave of his thick, short-fingered hand, he dismissed this less important subject matter, and once more spoke with his wanted eagerness on that which lay nearest his heart.

Now listen, my good de Marmont, he said, do you recollect last April when the Empress, poor wretched, misguided woman, fled so precipitately from Paris, abandoning the capital, France, and her crown at one and the same time, and taking away with her all the crown diamonds and money and treasure belonging to the emperor. She was terribly ill-advised, of course, but, yes, I remember all that perfectly well, broke in de Marmont impatiently. Well, then you know, you know, that that abominable Talleyrand sent one of his emissaries after the Empress and her suite, that this emissary, Doudan, was his name, reached Orleans just before Marie-Louise herself got there, and that he ordered, in Talleyrand's name, the seizure of the Empress's convoy

as soon as it arrived in the city, broke in de Marmont again. Yes, I recollect that. I recollect that abominable outrage perfectly. Doudan, backed by the officers of the gendarmerie, managed to rob the empress of everything she had, even to the last knife and fork, even to the last pocket-handkerchief belonging to the emperor and marked with his initials.

Oh, it was monstrous, hellish, devilish. It makes my blood boil whenever I think of it, whenever I think of those fatuous, treacherous bourbons gloating over those treasures at the tuleries, while our empress went her way as effectually despoiled as if she had been waylaid by so many brigands on a public highway. Just so resumed Emery quietly after de Marmont's violent storm of wrath had subsided. But I don't know if you also recollect that when the various cases containing the emperor's belongings were opened at the tulleries, there was just as much disappointment as gloating. Some of those fatuous bourbons, as you so rightly

call them, expected to find some 40 or 50 millions of the emperor's personal savings. Their banknotes and drafts on the banks of France, of England, and of Amsterdam, which they were looking forward to distributing among themselves and their friends. Your friend, the comp de Cambrai, would no doubt have come in, too, for his share in this distribution. But Monsieur de Talirand is a very wise man, always far-seeing. He knows the improvidence, the prodigality, the ostentation of these new masters whom he is so ready to serve. Air Doudan reached Paris with his booty, M. de Talleyrand had very carefully eliminated therefrom some five and twenty million francs in banknotes and bankers' drafts, which he felt would come in very usefully once for a rainy

day. But Mouser de Talleyrand is immensely rich himself, protested de Mouin. Marmont. Ah, he did not eliminate those five and twenty millions for his own benefit, said Emery, I would not so boldly accuse him of theft. The money has been carefully put away by Massour de Talleyrand for the use of his corpulent majesty, Louis de Bourbon, 18th of that name. Then as Emery here made a dramatic pause and looked triumphantly across at his companion, de Marmont rejoined somewhat bewildered. But I don't understand. Why I am telling you this, retorted Emery, still with that triumphant air. You shall understand in a moment, my friend, when I tell you that those five and twenty millions were never taken north to Paris.

They were conveyed in strict secrecy south to Grenoble. To Grenoble, exclaimed De Marmont. To Grenoble, reasserted Emery. But why? Why such a long way? Why Grenoble? Quiried the young man in obvious puzzlement. For several reasons, replied Emery.

Firstly, both the prefect of the department and the military commandant are hot royalists, whilst the province of Daphene is not. In case of any army corps being sent down there to quell possible and probable revolt, the money would have been there to hand. Also, if you remember, there was talk at the time of the King of Naples proving troublesome. There too, in case of a campaign on the frontier, the money lying ready to hand at Grenoble could prove very useful. But of course, I cannot possibly pretend to give you all the reasons which actuated Monsieur de Talleyrand when he caused five and twenty millions of stolen money to be conveyed secretly to Grenoble rather than to Paris.

His ways are more tortuous than any mere army surgeon can possibly hoped to gauge, enough that he did it, and that at this very moment there are five and twenty millions which are the rightful property of the emperor locked up in the cellars of the hotel DeVille at Grenoble. But murmured de Marmont, who still seemed very bewildered at all that he had heard, are you sure? Quite sure, affirmed Emery emphatically. DeMilleen brought new of it to the emperor at Elba several months ago. And you know that he and his Bonapartist club always have plenty of spies in and around the prefecture. The money is there, he reiterated with still greater emphasis. Now, the question is, how are we going to get hold of it? Easily

rejoined de Marmont with his habitual enthusiasm. When the emperor marches, into Grenoble and the whole of the garrison rallies around him, he can go straight to the Hotel de Ville and take everything that he wants. Always supposing that Monsieur Le Prophet does not anticipate the emperor's coming by conveying the money to Paris or elsewhere before we can get hold of it, quoth Emery dryly. Oh, Fourier is not sufficiently astute for that. Perhaps not, but we must not neglect possibilities. That money would be a perfect godsend to the emperor. It was originally his too, Pardieu.

Anyhow, my good, de Marmont, that is what I wanted to talk over quietly with you before I get into Grenoble. Can you think of any means of getting hold of that money in case Fourier has the notion of conveying it to some other place of safety? I would like to think that over, Emery, said to Marmont thoughtfully. As you say, we of the Bonapartist Club at Grenoble have spies inside the Hotel DeVille. We must try and find out what Fourier means to do as soon as he realized. that the emperor is marching on Grenoble, and then we must act accordingly and trust to luck and good fortune. And to the emperor's star, rejoined Emery earnestly, it is once more in the ascendant, but the matter of the money is a serious one, de Marmont. You will deal with it seriously?

Seriously, ejaculated de Marmont. Once more, the unquenchable fire of undemont. You will deal with it seriously? dying devotion to his hero, glowed in the young man's eyes. Everything pertaining to the emperor, he said fervently, is serious to me. For a whim of his, I would lay down my life. I will think of all you have told me, Emery, and here beneath the blue dome of God's sky, I swear that I will get the emperor, the money that he wants, or lose mine honor and my life in the attempt. Amen to that, rejoined Emery, with a deep sigh of satisfaction. You are a brave man, de Marmont. Would to heaven, every French man was like you?

And now, he added, with sudden transition, to a lighter mood, let Annette dish up the friccandu. Here's our friend the tradesman, who was born to be a soldier. Messore Clifford, he added loudly, calling to the Englishman who had just appeared in the doorway of the inn. My grateful thanks to you, not only for your courtesy, but for expediting that delicious degenere, which tickles my appetite so pleasantly, I pray you sit down without delay. I shall have to make an early start after the meal, as I must be inside Grenoble before dark.

Clifford, good-humored, genial, quiet as usual, quickly responded to the surgeon captain's desire. He took his seat once more at the table and spoke of the weather and the sunshine, the Alps and the snows, the while Annette spread a cloth and laid plates and knives and forks before the distinguished gentleman. We all want to make an early start, A, my dear Clifford, ejection. De Marmont gaily, we have serious business to transact this night with Massour Lecomte de Cambrai and partake to of his gracious hospitality. What? Amory laughed. Not, I forsooth. He said, M. Lecomte would as soon have Satan or Bezalbub inside his doors, and I marvel my good de Marmont that you have succeeded in keeping on such friendly terms. with that royalist ogre. I, said to Marmont, whose inward exultation radiated from his entire personality, I, my dear Emery, did you not know that I am that royalist ogre's future son-in-law?

Pardieu. But this is a glorious day for me, as well as a glorious day for France. Emery, dear friend, wish me joy and happiness. On Tuesday, I wed Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambrai. Tonight we sign our marriage contract. Wish me joy, I say. She's a bride well worth the winning. Napoleon sets forth to conquer a throne. I to conquer love.

And you, old sober face, do not look so glum, he added, turning to Clifford. And his ringing laugh seemed to echo from end to end of the narrow valley. after which a lighter atmosphere hung round the table outside the a burge do grand daffine. There was but little talk of the political situation, still less of party hatred and caste prejudices. The hero's name was still on the lips of the two men who worshipped him, and Clifford, faithful to his attitude of detachment from political conflicts, listened quite unmoved,

to the impassioned Dithriams of his friends, but so absorbed were these two in their conversation and their joy that they failed to notice that Clifford hardly touched the excellent Degener set before him and left mine hosts fine burgundy almost untasted. End of Chapter 1, Part 2. Chapter 2, Part 1 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The Old Regime. On that same day and at about the same time, when Victor de Marmont and his English friend first turned their horses up the bridle path,

and cited Notre Dame de Valks, when, if you remember, the young Frenchman drew rain and fell to apostrophizing the hamlet, the day, the hour, and the glorious news which he was expecting to hear. At about that self-same hour, I say, in the Chateau de Brestalo situate on the right bank of the Isserra at a couple of kilometers from Grenoble, the big folding doors of solid mahogany, which lead from the suite of vast reception rooms to the small boudoir beyond, were thrown open, and Hector appeared to announce that Monsieur Lecomte de Cambre would be ready to receive Madame La Duchess in the library in a quarter of an hour. Madame la Duchess

Duer Dajenne Theropon closed the gilt-edged, much-be-thumbed missile which she was reading since this was Sunday and she had been unable to attend

mass owing to that severe twinge of rheumatism in her right knee and placed it upon the table close to her elbow. Then with delicate, bemittened hand, she smoothed out one unruly crease in her puse silk gown and finally looked up through her round, bone-rimmed spectacles at the sober-visaged, majestic personage who stood at attention in the doorway. Tell Mouser Lecomte, my good Hector,

she said with slow deliberation, that I will be with him at the time which he has so graciously appointed. Hector bowed himself out of the room with that perfect decorum which proclaims the well-trained domestic of an aristocratic house. As soon as the tall mahogany doors were closed behind him, Madame La Duchess took her spectacles off from her high-bred nose and gave a little sniff, which caused Mademoiselle Crystal to look up from her book and mutely to question Madame with those wonderful blue eyes of hers. Ah, saw, my little Crystal, was Madame's tart response to that eloquent inquiry. Does Massour, my brother, imagine himself to be a second bourbon king, throning it in the tularies and granting audiences to the ladies of his court?

Or is it only for my edification that he plays this magnificent game of etiquette and ceremonial and other stupid paraphernalia which have set me wondering since last night? M. La Comte will receive Madame La Duchess in a quarter of an hour. Forsooth, she added, mimicking Hector's pompous manner, Pardieu, I should think indeed that he would receive his own sister when and where it suited her convenience, not his. Crystal was silent for a moment or two, and in those same expressive eyes which she kept fixed on madame's face the look of mute inquiry had become more insistent it almost seemed as if she were trying to penetrate the underlying thoughts of the older woman as if she tried to read all that there was in that kindly glance

of hidden sarcasm, of humor or tolerance, or of gentle contempt. Evidently, what she read in the wrinkled face and the twinkling eyes pleased and reassured her. For now, the suspicion of a smile found its way round the corners of her sensitive mouth. There are some very old people living in Grenoble at the present day, whose mothers or fathers have told them that they remembered Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambre quite well in the year that Massaure Lecomte returned from England and once more took possession of his ancestral home on the bank of the Assaire, which those awful terrorists of 92 had taken away from him. Louis the 18th, the benevolent king, had promptly restored the old chateau to its rightful owner

when he himself, after years of exile, mounted the throne of his fathers, and the usurper Bonaparte, was driven out of France by the armies of Europe allied against him, and sent to cool his ambitions in the island fastnesses of Elba. Mademoiselle de Cambrai was just 19 in that year 1814, which was so full of grace for the Bourbon dynasty and all its faithful adherents. And in February of the following year, she attained her 20th birthday. Of course, you know that she was born in England and that her mother was English, for had not M. Lecomte been obliged to fly before the fury of the terrorists whose dreaded committee of public safety had already arrested him as a suspect and condemned him to the guillotine. He had contrived to

escape death by what was nothing short of a miracle, and he had lived for 20 years in England, and there had married a beautiful English girl from whom Mademoiselle Crystal had inherited the deep blue eyes and brilliant skin, which were the greatest charm of her effulgent beauty. I like to think of her just as she was on that memorable day, early in March of the year 1815, just as she sat that morning on a low stool, close to Madame La Duchess's high-back chair, and with her eyes ficked so inquiringly upon Madame's kind old face. Her fair hair was done up in the quaint loops and curls, which characterized the mode of the moment. She had on a white dress cut low at the neck and had wrapped a soft cashmere shawl round her shoulders, for the weather was cold, and there was no fire in this stately open hearth. Having presumably arrived at the happy conclusion that Madame's wrath was only on the surface,

Crystal now said gently, Father loves all this etiquette, Matante. It brings back memories of a very happy past. It is the only thing he has left now. She added, with a little sigh, the only bit out of the past which that awful revolution could not take away from him. You will try to be indulgent to him, aunt, darling, won't you? Indulgent, retorted the old lady with a shrug of her shoulders. Of course I'll be indulgent. It's no affair of mine, and he does as he pleases. But I should have thought, that 20 years spent in England would have taught him common sense, and 20 years' experience in earning a precarious livelihood as a teacher of languages. And hush, aunt, for pity's sake, broke in crystal hurriedly, and she put up her hands almost as if she wished to stop the words in the old lady's mouth. All right, all right, I won't mention.

it again, said Madame La Duchess, good-humoredly. I have only been in this house four and twenty hours, my dear child, but I have already learned my lesson. I know that the memory of the past twenty years must be blotted right out of our minds,

out of the minds of every one of us. Not of mine, and, altogether, murmured Crystal softly. No, my dear, not altogether, rejoined Madame La Duchess as she placed one of her fine white hands on the fair head of her niece. Your beautiful mother belongs to the unforgettable memories of those 20 years. And not only my beautiful mother, Aunt dear, there are men living in England today whose names must remain forever engraved upon my father's heart, as well as on mine. If we should ever forget those names and neglect for one single day, our prayers of gratitude for their welfare and their reward, we should be the meanest

and blackest of ingrates. Ah, said madame, I am glad that masseur, my brother, remembers all that in the midst of his restored grandeur. Have you been wrunging him in your heart all this while, Matante? asked Crystal, and there was a slight tone of reproach in her voice. You used not to be so cynical once upon a time. Cynical, exclaimed the Duchess, bless the child's heart. Of course I am cynical. At my age, what can you expect?

And what can I expect? But there, don't distress yourself. I am not wronging your father. Far from it. Only this grandeur, the state dinner last night, his gracious manner, all that upset me. I am not used to it, my dear. You see, 20 years in that diminutive house in Worcester have altered my tastes. I see more than they did your fathers, and these last ten months, which he seems to have spent in reviving the old grandeur of his ancestral home. I spent, remember, with the dear little sisters of mercy at Boulogne, praying amidst very humble surroundings that the future may not become more unendurable than the past. But you are glad to be back at Brestola.

again, and you will remain here with us always, queried Crystal, and with tender eagerness, she clasped the older woman's hands closely in her own. Yes, dear, replied Madame gently, I am glad to be back in the old chateau, my dear old home, where I was very happy and very young once, oh, so very long ago, and I will remain with your father and look after him all the time that his young bird is absent from the nest. Again, she stroked her niece's soft, wavy hair with a gesture which apparently was habitual with her, and it seemed as if a note of sadness had crept into her brisk, sharp voice. Over Crystal's cheeks, a wave of crimson had quickly swept at her aunt's last words, and the eyes which she now raised to Madame's kindly face were full of tears.

It seems so terribly soon now, Matante, she said wistfully, hmm, yes, quoth Madame la Duchess dryly, time has a knack now and then, of flying faster than we wish. Well, my dear, so long as this day brings you happiness, the old folk who stay at home have no right to grumble. Then as Crystal made no reply and held her little head resolutely away, Madame said more insistently, you are happy, Crystal, are you not? Of course I am happy, Montante, replied Crystal, replied Crystal quickly, why should you ask? But still, she would not look straight into madame's eyes, and the tone of madame's voice sounded anything but satisfied. Well, she said,

I ask, I suppose, because I want an answer, a satisfactory answer. You have had it, Montante, have you not? Yes, my dear, if you are happy, I am satisfied, but last night it seemed to me as if your ideas of your own happiness and those of your father on the same subject were somewhat at variance, eh? Oh no, Matante rejoined Crystal quietly. Father and I are quite of one mind on that subject. But your heart is pulling a different way. Is that it? Then as Crystal once more relapsed into something, silence and two hot tears dropped on the duchess's wrinkled hands. The old woman added softly. St. Janice, who hasn't a sue, was out of the question, I suppose. Crystal shook her head in

silence, and that young de Marmont is very rich. He is his uncle's heir, murmured Crystal, and you, child, are marrying a kinsman of that abominable Duke de Ragoose in order to re-gild our family, Ascuchian. My father wished it so very earnestly, rejoined Crystal, who was bravely swallowing her tears, and I could not bear to run counter to his desire. The Duke de Ragoose has promised, father, that when I am, a de Marmont, he will buy back all the forfeited Cambre estates and restore them to us. Victor will be allowed to take up the name of Cambrai. And, oh, she exclaimed passionately,

Father has had such a hard life, so much sorrow, so many disappointments. And now this poverty is so horribly grinding. I couldn't have the heart to disappoint him in this. You are a good child, Crystal, said Madame gently, and no doubt Victor de Marmont will prove a good husband to you. But I wish he wasn't a Marmont, that's all. But this remark, delivered in the old lady's most uncompromising manner, brought forth a hot protest from Crystal.

and, she said, the Duke de Ragus is the most faithful servant the king could possibly wish to have. It was he and no one else who delivered Paris to the Allies, and thus brought about the downfall of Bonaparte and the restoration of our dear King Louis to the throne of France. Tash, child, I know that, said Madame, with her habitual tariff. heartness of speech. I know it just as well as history will know it presently, and methinks that history will pass on the Duke-day-Rugus just about the same judgment as I passed on him in my heart last year. God knows I hate that bone apart as much as anyone, and our bourbon kings are almost as much a part of my religion as is the hierarchy of saints. But a traitor

like de Marmont, I cannot stomach. What was he before Bonaparte made him a marshal of France and created him Duke de Raguse and out at Elbeau's ragamuffin in the ranks of the Republican Army? To Bonaparte, he owed everything. Title, money, consideration, even the military talents which gave him the power to turn on the hand that had fed him. Delivered Paris to the Allies indeed, continued the Duchess with ever-increasing indignation and volubility, betrayed Bonaparte, then licked the boots of the Tsar of Russia, of the Emperor, of King Louis, of all the deadly enemies. of the man to whom he owed his very existence.

Po, I hate Bonaparte, but men like Ney and Berthier and de Marmont sicken me. Thank God that even in his lifetime, de Marmont, Duke de Ragoos, has already an inkling of what posterity will say of him. Has not the French language been enriched since the capitulation of Paris with a new word that henceforth, and for all times, will always spell disloyalty. And today, when we wish to describe a particularly loathsome type

of treachery, do we not already speak of a ragusade? Crystal had listened in silence to her aunt's impassioned tirade. Now when Madame paused, presumably for want of breath, she said gently, that is all quite true, Matante, but I am afraid that Father would not all together see eye to eye with you in this. After all, she added naively, a pagan may become converted to Christianity without being called a traitor to his false gods, and the dupe de Ragoos may have learned to hate the idol, whom he once worshipped, and for this profession of faith, we should honor him, I think. Yes, grunted Madame, unconvinced, but we need not marry into his family.

But in any case, retorted Crystal, poor Victor cannot help what his uncle did. No, he cannot assented the Duchess decisively, and he is very rich, and he loves you, and as your husband he will own all the old Cambrai estates, which his uncle of Raguseid fame will buy up for him, and presently your son, my darling, will be comped to Cambray, just as if that awful revolution and all that robbing and spoliation had never been. And of course everything will be for the best in the best possible world. If only, concluded the old lady with a sigh, if only I thought that you would be happy.

Crystal took care not to meet madame's kindly glance just then, for of a surety the tears would have rushed in a stream to her eyes, but she would not give way to any excess of self-pity. She had chosen her part in life, and this she meant to play loyally without regret and without murmur. But of course, Montante, I shall be happy, she said after a while. As you say, Monsieur de Marmont is very kind and good, and I know that Father will be happy when Brestolo and Cambrai and all the old lands are once more united. in his name, then he will be able to do something really great and good for the king and for France,

and I too, perhaps. You, my poor darling, exclaimed, Madame, what can you do I should like to know? A curious, dreamy look came into the girl's eyes, just as if a foreknowledge of the drama in which she was so soon destined to play the chief role had suddenly appeared to her through the cloudy and distant veils of futurity. I don't know, Matante, she said slowly, but somehow I have always felt that one day I might be called upon to do something for France. There are times when that feeling becomes so strong that all thoughts of myself and of my own happiness fade from my knowledge. And it seems as if my duty to France and to the king were more insistent than my duty to God. Poor France, sighed madame. Yes, that is just what I feel. Matante, poor France, she has suffered so much.

more than we have, and she has regained so much less. Enemies still lurk around her. The prowling wolf is still at her gate. Even the throne of her king is still insecure. Poor, poor France, our country, Matante, she should be our pride, our glory, and she is weak and torn and beset by treachery. Oh, if only I could do something for France and for the king, I would count myself the happiest woman

on God's earth. Now, she was a woman transformed. She seemed taller and stronger. Her girlishness too had vanished. Her cheeks burned. Her eyes glowed. Her breath came and went rapidly through her quivering nostrils. Madame La Duchess de Agin looked down on her knees with naive admiration. Hey, my little Joan of Arc, she said merrily.

Pardieu, your eloquence, Ma Mignon, has warmed up my old heart too. But, please God, our dear old country will not have need of heroism again. I am not so sure of that.

Matante, you are thinking of that ugly rumor which was current in Grenoble yesterday. Yes, if that Corsican brigand dares to set his foot again upon this land, began the old lady vehemently. Let him come, Matante, broken crystal exultantly. We are ready for him. Let him come. And this time, when God has punished him again, it won't be to ever. Elba that he will be sent to expiate his villainies. Amen to that, my child, concluded Madame

fervently. And now, my dear, don't let me forget the hour of my audience. Hector will be back in a moment or two, and I must not lose any more time gossiping. But before I go, little one, will you tell me one thing? Of course I will, Matante, quite frankly. Absolutely. Well, then, I want to know about that English friend of yours. Mr. Clifford, you mean? asked Crystal, what about him? I want to know, my dear, what I ought to make of this Mr. Clifford. Crystal laughed lightly and looked up with astonished, inquiring wide-open eyes to her aunt. What should you want to make of him? Matante? she asked.

wholly unperturbed under the scrutinizing gaze of madame. Nothing, said the Duchess abruptly. I have had my answer. Thank you, dear. Evidently, she had no intention of satisfying the girl's obvious curiosity, for she suddenly rose from her chair, gathered her lace shawl round her shoulders, and said with abrupt transition,

The hour for my audience is at hand. Not one minute must I keep my august brother waiting. I can hear Hector's footsteps in the corridor, and I will not have him see me in a fluster. Crystal looked as if she would have liked to question Madame a little more closely about her former cryptic utterance, but there was something in the sarcastic twinkle of those sharp eyes, which caused the young girl to refrain from too many questions,

and very wisely, she decided to hold her peace. Madame La Duchess threw a quick glance into the gilt-framed mirror close by. She smoothed a stray wisp of hair which had escaped from under her lace cap. She gave a tug to her fidchu and a pat to her. her skirts, then as the folding doors were once more thrown open, and Hector, stiff, solemn, and pompous, appeared under the lintel. Madame threw back her head in the grand manner pertaining to the old days at Versailles. Precede me, Hector, she said with consummate dignity, to Monsieur Lecombe's audience chamber. And with hands folded before her, her aristocratic head very erect,

her mouth and eyes composed to reposeful majesty, she sailed out through the mahogany doors in a style which no one who had never courtseied to the Bien Amé monarch could possibly hope to imitate. For some little while after her aunt had sailed out of the room, Crystal remained where she was sitting on the low stool, beside the high-backed chair just vacated by the Duchess. Her eyes were still glowing with the enthusiasm, which had excited the admiration of the older woman a while ago, and the high color in her cheeks, the tremor of her nostrils showed that that same enthusiasm still kept her nerves on the quiver and caused the young hot blood to course swiftly through her veins. But something of the lightness of her mood had vanished, something of the exultant joy of the heroin

had given place to the calmer resignation of the potential martyr. Gradually, the color faded from her cheeks. The light died slowly out of her eyes, and the young fair head, so lately tossed triumphantly in the ardor of patriotism, sunk gradually upon the still heaving breast. Crystal was alone, and she was not ashamed to let the tears well up to her eyes, despite her proud profession of faith, the insistent longing for happiness, which is the inalienable share of youth, knocked at the portals of her heart, not even to the devoted aunt who had brought her up, who had known her every childish sorrow, and gleaned her every childish tear, not even to her would she show what it cost her to sink her individuality, her longings, her hopes of happiness

into that overwhelming sense of duty to her father's wishes and to the demands of her name, her country, and her caste? She had repeated it to herself often, and often that her father had suffered so much for the sake of his convictions, had endured poverty and exile, where opportunism would have dictated submission to the usurper Bonaparte and the acceptance of riches and honors at his hands. He had remained loyal in his beliefs, steadfast to his king through 20 years of misery akin to squalor, the remembrance of which, would forever darken the rest of his life. But he had endured all that without bitterness,

scarcely without a murmur. And now that 20 years of self-abnegation were at last finding their reward, now that the king had come into his own, and the king's faithful friends were being compensated in accordance with the length of the king's purge, would it not be errant cowardice and disloyalty for her and only child to oppose her father's will in the ordering of her own future, to refuse the rich marriage which would help to restore dignity and grandeur to the ancient name and to the old home?

Crystal, the Cambrai, was born in England. She had lived the whole of her life. in a small provincial town in this country. But she had been brought up by her aunt, the Duchess Duer de Jens. And through that upbringing, she had been made to imbibe from her earliest childhood all the principles of the old regime.

These principles consisted chiefly of implicit obedience by the children to the parents' decrees anent marriage. of blind worship of the dignity of station, and of duty to name and cast to king and country. The thought would never have entered Crystal's head that she could have the right to order her own future, or to demand from life her own special brand of happiness. Now, her fate had been finally decided on by her father, and she was on the point. of taking, at his wish, the irrevocable step which would bind her forever to a man whom she could

never love. But she did not think of rebellion. She had no thought of grumbling at fate or at her father. Crystal de Cambre had English blood in her veins, the blood that makes men and women except the inevitable, with set teeth, and a determination to do the right thing, even if it hurts. Crystal, therefore, had no thought of rebellion. She only felt an infinity of regret for something sweet and intangible, which she had hardly realized, hardly expected, which had been too elusive to be called hope, too remote to be termed happiness. She gave herself the luxury of this short outburst of tears since nobody was near and nobody could see. There was a fearful pain in her heart while she rested her head against the cushion of the stiff, high-backed chair and cried till it seemed that she

never could cry again, whatever sorrow life might still have in store for her. But when that outburst of grief had subsided, she dried her eyes resolutely, rose to her feet, arranged her hair in front of the mirror, and feeling that her eyes were hot and her head heavy, she turned to the tall French window, opened it, and stepped out into the garden. It had suffered from years of neglect. The shrubs grew rank and stocky. The paths were covered with weeds, but there was a slight feeling of spring in the air. The bare branches of the trees seemed swollen with the rising sap, and upon the edge of the terrace balustrade, a red-breasted robin cocked its mischievous little eye upon her. At the bottom of the garden, there was a fine row of Ilex,

with here and there a stone seat, and in the center an old stone fountain, moss-covered, and overshadowed by the hanging boughs of the huge melancholy trees. Crystal was very fond of this avenue. She liked to sit and watch the play of sunshine upon the stone of the fountain, the melancholy quietude of the place suited her present mood. It was so strange to look on these big evergreen trees and on the havoc caused by weeds and weather on the fine carving of the fountain. And to think of their going on here year after year for the past 20 years, while that hideous revolution had devastated the whole country. while men had murdered each other, slaughtered women and children, and committed every crime and

every infamy which lust of hate and revenge can engender in the hearts of men. The old trees and the stone fountain had remained peaceful and still the while, unscathed and undefiled, grand, dignified, and majestic, while the owner of the fine shethe, of the gardens and the fountain, and of half the province around, earned a precarious livelihood in a foreign land, half-starved in wretchedness and exile. She, Crystal, had never seen them until some ten months ago when her father came back into his own, and leading his daughter by the hand had taken her on a tour of inspection to show her the magnificence of her ancestral home. She had loved at once the fine old chateau with its lichen-covered walls, its fine portcullis,

and crenellated towers. She had wept over the torn tapestries, the broken furniture, the family portraits, which a rough and impious rabble had willfully damaged. She had loved the wide sweep of the terrace walls, the views over the Asaire, and across the mountain range to the peaks of the Grand Chartreuse. But above all, she had loved this somber row of Ilex trees, the broken fountain, the hush and peace,

which always lay over this secluded portion of, the neglected garden. The earth was moist and soft under her feet. The cheeky robin, curious after the manner of his kind, had followed her and was flying from seat to seat ahead of her, watching her every movement. Crystal, at first she thought that it was the wind sighing through the trees. So softly had her name been spoken, so like a sighed did it seem, as a sighed. As a it reached her ears. Crystal, this time she could not be mistaken.

Someone had called her name. Someone was walking up the avenue rapidly behind her. She would not turn round, for she knew who it was that had called and she would not allow surprise to resuscitate

the outward signs of regret. But she stood quite still while those hasty footsteps drew nearer, and she made a great and successful effort to keep back the tears, which once more threatened to fill her eyes. A minute later, she felt herself gently drawn to the nearest stone seat, and she sank down upon it, still trying very hard to remain calm and above all not to cry. Oh, why, why did you come, Maris? She said at last, when she felt that she could look with some semblance of composure on the half-sitting, half-nealing figure of the young man beside her.

Despite her obstinate resistance, he had taken her hand in his and was covering it with kisses. Why did you come? She reiterated pleadingly, you must know. that it is no use. I can't believe it. I won't believe it, he protested passionately. Crystal, if you really cared, you would not send me away from you. If I really cared, she said, Dully, Maris, sometimes I think that if you really cared, you would not make it so difficult for me. Can't you see? She added more vehemently that every time you come, you make me more wretched, and my duties seem more hard, till sometimes I feel as if I could not bear it any longer, as if in the struggle my poor heart would suddenly break. And because your father is so

heartless, he began vehemently. My father is not heartless, Maurice, she broke in firmly, but you must try and see for yourself how impossible it was for him to give his consent to our marriage, even if he knew that my happiness was bounded by your love. Just think it over quietly. If you had a sister who was all the world to you, would you consent to such a marriage? With a penniless out at elbows, good for nothing, you mean? He said, said with a kind of resentful bitterness. No, I dare say I should not. Money, he cried impetuously as he jumped to his feet, and burying his hands in the pockets of his breeches, he began pacing the path up and down in front of her. Money, always money, always talk of duty and of obedience,

always your father and his sorrows and his desires. Do I count for nothing then? Have I not suffered as he has suffered? Did I not live in exile as he did? Have I not made sacrifices for my king and for my ideals? Why should I suffer in the future as well as in the past? Why? Because my king is powerless or supine in giving me back what was filched from my father. Should that be taken from me, which alone gives me incentive to live? You, Crystal, he added, as once again he nailed beside her. He encircled her shoulders with his arms. Then he seized her two hands and covered them with kisses. You are all that I want in this world. After all, we can live in poverty. We have. We have. have been brought up in poverty, you and I, and even then it is only a question of a few years,

months, perhaps, the king must give us back what that abominable revolution took from us, from us who remained loyal to him, and because we were loyal, my father owned rich lands in Burgundy, the king must give those back to me. He must, he shall, he will, If only you will be patient, Crystal, if only you will wait. The fiery blood of his race had rushed into Maurice de St. Genesis' head. He was talking volubly and at random, but he believed, for the moment, everything that he said. Tears of passion and of fervor came to his eyes, and he buried his head in the folds of Crystal's white gown, and heavy sobs shook his bent shoulders. She, moved by that motherly tenderness,

which is seldom absent from a good woman's love, stroked with soothing fingers, the matted hair from his hot forehead. For a while, she remained silent, while the paroxysm of his passionate revolt spent itself in tears. Then she said quite softly, I think, Maurice, that in your heart you do us all an injustice to me, to father, to yourself, even to the king. The king cannot give you that which is not his. Your property, like ours, was confiscated by that awful revolutionary government because your father and mine followed their king into exile.

The rich lands were sold for the benefit of the nation. The nation, presumably, has spent the money, but the people who bought the lands in good faith cannot be dispossessed by our king without creating bitter ill-feeling against himself, as you well know, and once more endangering his throne. Those are the facts, Maurice, against which no hot-blooded argument, no passionate outbursts, can prevail. The king gave my father back this dear old castle because it happened to have proved unsaleable and was still on the nation's hands. Our rich lands like yours can never be restored to us. That hard fact has been driven into poor father's head for the past ten months,

and now it has gone home at last. These gray walls, this neglect. garden, a few sticks of broken furniture, a handful of money from an over-generous king's treasury, is all that fate has rescued for him from out the ashes of the past. My father is every whit as penniless as you are yourself, Maurice, as penniless as ever he was in England when he gave French and drawing lessons to a lot of young ragamuffe. in a middle-class school. But Victor de Marmont is rich, and his money, once I am his wife, will purchase back all the estates, which have been in our family for hundreds of years. For my father's sake, for the sake of the name which I bear, I must give my hand to Victor de Marmont

and pray to God that some semblance of peace, the sense of duty accomplishes. The sense of duty accomplishes. will compensate me for the happiness to which I shall bid goodbye today. And you are willing to be sold to young de Marmont for the price of a few acres of land, retorted Maurice de Saint-Genis hotly. Oh, it's monstrous, crystal, monstrous, all the more monstrous, as you seem quite unconscious of the iniquity of such a bargain. Women of our cast, Marie's, she said in her turn, with a touch of bitterness, have often before now been sacrificed for the honor of their name. Men have been accustomed to look to them for help when their own means of gilding their Ascuchians have failed.

And you are willing, Crystal, to be sold like this? He insisted, my father wishes me to marry. Victor de Marmont, she replied with calm dignity, and after all that he has suffered for the honor and dignity of our name, I should deem myself craven and treacherous if I refused to obey him in this. Maurice de St. Genes once more rose to his feet. All his vehemence, his riotous outbreak of rebellion, seemed to have been smothered beneath a pall of dreary despair. His young, good-looking face appeared somber and sullen. His restless, dark eyes wandered obstinately from crystals' fair, bent head, to her stooping shoulders, to her hands, to her feet.

It seemed as if he was trying to engrave an image of her upon his turbulent brain, or that he wished to force her to look on him again before she spoke the last words of farewell. But she wouldn't look at him. She kept her head resolutely averted, looking far out over the undulating lands of Dauphine and Savoy, to where in the far distant sky the stately Alps reared their snow-crowned heads, at last, unable to bear her silence any longer, he said, Dully, then it is your last word, Crystal? You know that it must be, Maris, she murmured in reply. My marriage contract will be signed tonight, and on Tuesday I go to the altar with Victor de Marmont.

And you mean to tear your love for me out of your heart? Yes, were its roots. a little deeper, a little stronger, you could not do it, Crystal, but they are not so deep as those of your love for your father. She made no reply. Perhaps something in her heart told her that, after all, he might be right, that unbeknown to herself even, there were tendrils of affection in her that bound her ivy-like and so closely to her father that even her girlish love for Maurice de St. Janice, the first hint of passion that had stirred the smooth depths of her young heart, could not tear her from that bulwark to which she clung.

This is the last time that I shall see you, Crystal, said Maurice with a sigh, seeing that obviously she meant to allow his taunt to pass unchallenged. You are going away? She asked, how can I stay here under this roof, where Anon, in a few hours, Victor de Marmont, will have claims upon you, which, if he exercised them before me, would make me wish to kill him or myself.

I shall leave tomorrow early, he added more quietly. Where will you go? To Paris or abroad, or the devil, I don't know which, he replied moodily. Father will be sorry if you go, she murmured under her breath, for once again the tears were very insistent, and she felt an awful pain in her heart because of the misery which she had to inflict upon him. Your father has been passing kind to me. He gave me a home when I was homeless, but it is not fitting that I should trespass any longer upon his hospitality. Have you made any plans? Not yet, but the king will give me a commission. There will be some fighting now.

there was a rumor in Grenoble last night that Bonaparte had landed at Antibbys and was marching on Paris. A false rumor as usual, I suppose, she said indifferently. Perhaps he replied, there was silence between them for a while after that, silence only broken by the Twitter of birds, waking to the call of spring. The word goodbye remained unspoken. Neither of them. dared to say it lest it broke the barrier of their resolve. Will you not go now, Maris, said Crystal, at last in pitiable pleading. We only make each other hopelessly wretched by lingering near one another after this. Yes, I will go, Crystal, he replied, and this time he really forced his voice to tones of

gentleness, although his inward resentment still bubbled out with every word he spoke. I wish I could have left this house altogether, now at once, but your father would resent it, and he has been so kind. I wish I could go today. He reiterated obstinately, I dread seeing Victor de Marmont in this house where the laws of chivalry forbid my striking him in the face. Maurice, she exclaimed reproachfully, nay, I'll not say it again. I have sufficient reason left in me, I think, to show these parvenues how we of the old regime bear every blow which fate chooses to deal to us. They have taken everything from us. These new men, our lives, our lands, are very means of subsistence.

Now they have taken to filching our sweethearts, curse them, but at least let us keep our dignity. But again she was silent. What was there to say that had not been said, save that unspoken word, goodbye? And he asked very softly, may I kiss you for the last time, Crystal. No, Maurice, she replied, never again. You are still free, he urged. You are not plighted to De Marmont yet. No, not actually, not till tonight. Then May and I? No, Maurice, she said decisively, your hand then, if you like. He knelt down close to her. She yielded her hand to him, and he, with his usual impulsiveness, covered it with kisses into which he tried to infuse the

fervor of a last farewell. Then, without another word, he rose to his feet and walked away with a long and firm stride down the avenue. Crystal watched his retreating figure until the overhanging branches of the Ilex hid him from her view. She made no attempt now to restrain her tears. They flowed uninterruptedly down her cheeks and dropped hot and searing upon her hands, with Marisa's figure disappearing down the dark avenue. With the echo of his footsteps dying away in the distance, the last chapter of her first book of romance seemed to be closing with relentless finality.

The afternoon sun was hidden behind a bank of gray clouds. The northeast wind came whistling insistently through the trees. Even that feeling of spring in the air had vanished. It was just a bleak, gray winter's day now. Crystal felt herself shivering with cold. She drew her shawl more closely round her shoulders. Then with eyes still wet with tears. but small head held well erect, she rose to her feet and walked rapidly back to the house. End of Chapter 2, Part 1 Chapter 2, Part 2 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orxie. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah.

Madame La Duchess had, in the meanwhile, followed Hector along the corridor and down the finely carved marble staircase. At a monumental door on the ground floor, the man paused, his hand upon the massive Ormolu handle, waiting for Madame La Duchess to come up. He felt a little uncomfortable at her approach, for his Here in the big square hall, the light was very clear, and he could see madame's keen, searching eyes, looking him up and down and through and through. She even put up her lorgnon, and though she was not very tall, she contrived to look Hector through them, straight between the eyes. Is Mosseur Lecomte in there? Madame La Duchess deigned to ask as she pointed with her lorgnon to the door. In the small library beyond Madame La Duchess replied Hector stiffly,

and she queried with sharp sarcasm, is the antechamber very full of courtiers and ladies just now? A quick, almost imperceptible blush spread over Hector's impassive capsive. countenance and as quickly vanished again. M. M. Lecompt, he said imperturbably, is disengaged at the present moment. He seldom receives visitors at this hour. On Madame's mobile lips, the sarcastic curl became more marked. And I suppose, my good Hector, she said, that since Mouser Lecomte has only granted an audience

to his sister today, you thought it was a good opportunity for putting yourself at your ease and wearing your patched and mended clothes, eh? Once more, that sudden wave of color swept over Hector's solemn old face. He was evidently, at a loss, how to take Madame La Duchess's remark, whether as a rebuke or merely as one of those mild jokes of which everyone knew that madame was inordinately fond. Something of his dignity of attitude seemed to fall away from him as he vainly tried to solve this portentous problem. His mouth felt dry and his head hot, and he did not know on which foot he could stand with the least possible discomfort, and how he could contrive to hide from Madame La Duchess's piercing eyes that very obvious patch in the right knee of his breeches. Madame La Duchess will forgive me,

I hope. He stammered painfully. But already Madame's kind old face had shed its mask of raillery. Never mind, Hector, she said gently, you are a... a good fellow, and there's no occasion to tell me lies about the rich liveries which are put away somewhere, nor about the numerous retinue and countless numbers of flunkies, all of whom are having unaccountably long holidays just now. It's no use trying to throw dust in my eyes, my poor friend, or put on that pompous manner with me. I know that the carpets are not all temporarily rolled up, or the best of the furniture at a repairer's in Grenoble.

What's the use of pretending with me, old Hector? Those days at Wooster are not so distant yet, are they, when all the family had to make a meal off a pound of sausages, or your wife, Jean. God bless her, had to pawn her wedding ring to buy Mazor La Comte de Cambrai, a second-hand overcoat. Madame la Duchess, I humbly pray your grace, entreated Hector, whose wrinkled parchment-like face had become the color of a peony, and who, torn between the respect which he had for the great lady, and his horror at what she said, was ready to sink through the floor in his confusion.

A what, man, retorted the Duchess lightly. There is no one but these bare walls to hear me, and my words you'll find will clear the atmosphere round you. It was very stifling, my good Hector, when I arrived. There now, she added, announce me to Moseur L'Col. and then go down to Jean and tell her that I, for one, have no intention of forgetting Worcester or the pond ring or the sausages, and that the array of Grenoble louts dressed up for the occasion in moth-eaten liveries dragged up out of some old chess. Do not please me half as much round a dinner table as did her dear old streaming phase. when she used to bring us the omelet straight out of the kitchen.

She dropped her lorgnon, and folding her aristocratic hands upon her bosom, she once more assumed the grand manner pertaining to Versailles, and Hector, having swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat, threw open the huge folding doors, and announced in a stentorian voice, Madame la Duchess Doréry de Gen. Masura Lecomte de Cambre was at this time, close on sixty years of age, and the hardships which he had endured for close upon a quarter of a century

had left their indelible impress upon his wrinkled, careworn face. But no one, least of all a younger man, could possibly rival him in dignity of bearing and gracious condescension of manner. He wore his clothes after the old-time fashion and clung to the powdered parochay, which had been the mode at the Tulleries and Versailles, before these vulgar young Republicans took to wearing their own hair in its natural color. Now as he advanced from the inner room to meet Madame La Duchess, He seemed a perfect representation, or rather resuscitation, of the courtly and vanished epoch, of the Roy Soleil. He held himself very erect and walked with measured step and a stereotyped smile upon his lips.

He paused just in front of Madame La Duchess, then stopped and lightly touched with his lips, the hand which she held out to him. Tell me, Missour, my brother, said Madame, in her loudly pitched voice, do you expect me to make before you my best for sigh curtsy, for with my rheumatic knee, I warn you that once I get down, you might find it very difficult to get me up on my feet again. Hush, Sophie, admonished Massour Lecomte impatiently. you must try and subdue your voice a little. We are no longer in Wooster, remember. But Madame only shrugged

her thin shoulders. Bah, she retorted, there's only good old Hector on the other side of the door, and you don't imagine you are really throwing dust in his eyes, do you? Good old Hector with his threadbare livery and his ill-fed belly. Sophie, exclaimed Monsieur Lecomte, who was really vexed this time. I must insist. All right, all right, my dear Andre, I won't say anything more. Take me to your audience chamber, and I'll try to behave like a lady. A smile that was distinctly mischievous still hovered round Madame's lips, but she forced her eyes to look grave. She held out the tips of her fingers to her brother and allowed him to lead her in the correct manner into the next room.

Here, Monsieur Lecomte invited her to sit in an upright chair, which was placed at a convenient angle close to his bureau, while he himself sat upon a stately, thrown-like armchair, one shapely knee bent, the other slightly stretched forward, displaying the fine silk stocking and the set of his well-cut satin breeches. Madame La Duchess kept her hands folded in front of her and waited in silence for her brother to speak, but he seemed at a loss how to begin,

for her piercing gaze was making him feel very uncomfortable. He could not help but detect in it the twinkle of good-humored, Marquesme, of course, would not help him out. She enjoyed his obvious embarrassment, which took him down somewhat from that high altitude of dignity wherein he delighted to soar. My dear Sophie, he began at last, speaking very deliberately and carefully choosing his words, before the step which Crystal is about to take today becomes absolutely irreversely. I desired to talk the matter over with you, since it concerns the happiness of my only child. Isn't it a little late, my good André, remarked Madame Dryly, to talk over a question which has been decided a month ago?

The contract is to be signed tonight. Our present conversation might have been held to some purpose soon after the new year. it is distinctly useless today. At madame's sharp and uncompromising words, a quick blush had spread over the calmed sunken cheeks. I could not consult you before, Sophie, he added coldly, you chose to amure yourself in a convent rather than come back straight away to your old home,

as we all did when our king was restored to his throne. The post has been very disorganized, and Boulogne is a far cry from Brestolo. But I did write to you as soon as Victor de Marmont made his formal request for Crystal's hand. To this letter, I had no reply, and I could not keep him waiting in indefinite uncertainty. Your letter did not reach me until a month after it was written, as I had the honor to tell you in my reply. And that same reply only reached me a fortnight ago, retorted the Comte, when Crystal had been formally engaged to Victor de Marmont for over a month, and the date for the signature of the contract, and the wedding day had both been fixed. I then sent a courier

at great expense and in great haste immediately to you. He added with a tone, of dignified reproach, I could do no more. Or less, she assented tartly, and here I am, my dear brother, and I am not blaming you for delays in the post. I merely remarked that it was too late now to consult me upon a marriage, which is to all intents and purposes, an accomplished fact already. That is so, of course, but it would be a great personal satisfaction to me, my good Sophie, to hear your views upon the matter. You have brought Crystal up from babyhood in a measure. You know her better than even I, her father, do, and therefore you are better able than I am to judge whether Crystal's marriage

with DeMarmont will be conducive to her permanent happiness. As to that, my good André, Quoth, Madame, you must remember that when our father and mother decided that a marriage between me and Monsieur Leduc de Agin was desirable, my personal feelings and character were never consulted for a moment, and I suppose that taking life as it is, I was never particularly unhappy as his wife. And what do you adduce from those reminiscences, my dear Sophie? Quiried the Comte de Cambrai suavely, that Victor de Marmont is not a bad fellow, replied Madame, that he is no worse than was Monsieur Lé duke de Agin, and that therefore there is no reason to suppose that Crystal will be any more unhappy than I was in my time.

But there is no but about it, my good André, Crystal is a sweet girl and a devoted daughter. She will make the best, never you fear, of the circumstances into which your blind worship of your own dignity and of your rank have placed her. My good Sophie broke in the Count hotly. You talk, Pardieu, as if I was forcing my only child into a disson. tasteful marriage. No, I do not talk as if you were forcing Crystal into a distasteful marriage, but you know quite well that she only accepted Victor de Marmot because it was your wish, and because his millions are going to buy back the old Cambrai estates, and she is so imbued with the sense of her duty to you and to the family Ascuchy.

that she was willing to sacrifice every personal feeling in the fulfillment of that duty. By personal feeling, I suppose that you mean St. Genus. Well, yes, I do, said Madame laconically. Crystal was very much in love with him at one time. She still is. But even you, my dear sister, must admit that a marriage with St. Janus was out of the question. retorted the Count in his turn with some acerbity. I am very fond of Maurice, and his name is as old and great as ours, but he hasn't as Sue, and you know as well as I do by now, that the restoration of confiscated lands

is out of the question. Parliament will never allow it, and the King will never dare. I know all that, my poor Andre, side madame, in a more conciliatory spirit, I know, moreover, that you yourself haven't a sue either, in spite of your grandeur and your prejudices, money must be got somehow, and our ancient family Scutcheon must be regilt at any cost. I know that we must keep up this state pertaining to the old regime. We must have our lackey. and our livery's sycophants around us and gaping yokels on our way when we sally out into the open. We must blot out from our lives those 20 years spent in a democratic and enlightened country where no one is ashamed either of poverty or of honest work.

And above all things, we must forget that there has ever been a revolution which sent Moussor Lecomte de Cambrai, commander of the Order of the Holy Ghost, Grand Cross of the Order Dulis, Signor of Montflery, and Saint Eynard, hereditary Grand Chamberlain of France to teach French and drawing in an English grammar school. You wrong me there, Sophie, I wish to forget nothing of the past 20 years. I thought that you had given your memory of holiday. I forget nothing, he reiterated with dignified emphasis, neither the squalid poverty which I endured, nor the bitter experiences which I gleaned in exile, nor the devotion of those who saved your life and yours, he interposed and mine at risk of their own. Perhaps you will believe me

when I tell you that not a day goes by, but Crystal and I speak of Sir Percy Blakeney, and of his gallant league of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Well, we owe our lives to them, said Madame, with deep-drawn sigh, I wonder if we shall ever see any of those fine fellows again. God only knows, sighed Monsieur Lecomte in response, but he continued more like, lightly. As you know, the league itself has ceased to be. We saw very little of Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney latterly, for we were too poor ever to travel up to London. Crystal and I saw them before we left

England, and I then had the opportunity of thanking Sir Percy Blakeney for the last time for the many valuable French lives which his plucky little league had saved. He is indeed a gallant gentleman, said Madame La Duchess gently, even whilst her bright, shrewd eyes gazed straight out before her, as if on the great bare walls of her own ancestral home. The ghostly hand of memory had conjured up pictures of long ago, her own, her husbands, and her brother's arrest here in this very room, the weeping servants, the rough, half-naked soldiery, then the agony of a nine-days imprisonment in a dark, dank prison cell,

filled to overflowing with poor wretches in the same pitiable plight as herself, the hasty trial, the insults, the mockery, her husband's death in her. prison and her own thoughts of approaching death. Then the gallant deed, after all these years, she could still see herself, her brother and Jean, her faithful maid, and poor devoted Hector, all huddled up in a rickety tumble, being dragged through the streets of Paris on the road to death. On ahead, she had seen the weird outline of the guillotine, silhouetted against the evening sky whilst all around her a howling, jeering mob, saying that awful refrain, Saw-A-rah, saw-a-rah, less Aristo's a la Lantern.

Then it was that she had felt unseen hands snatching her out of the tumble. She had felt herself being dragged through that yelling crowd to a place where there was silence and darkness, and where she knew that. that she was safe, thence she was conveyed. She hardly realized how to England, where she and her brother, and Jean and Hector, their faithful servants, had found refuge for over twenty years. It was a gallant deed, whispered Madame La Duchess once again, and one which will always make me love every Englishman I meet, for the sake of one who was called the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Then why should you attribute vulgar in gratitude to me, retorted the Compt reproachfully? My feelings, I imagine, are as sensitive as your own. Am I not trying my best to be kind to that Mr. Clifford, who is an honored guest in my house, just because it was Sir Percy Blakeney who recommended him to me? It can't be very difficult to be. be kind to such an attractive young man, was Madame Loduchess's dry comment. Recommendation, or no recommendation, I liked your Mr. Clifford, and if it were not so late in the day, and there was still time to give my opinion, I would suggest that Mr. Clifford's money

could quite well regaled our family Scotcheon. He is very rich, too, I understand. My good Sophie, claimed the Comte in horror, what can you be thinking of? Crystal, principally, replied the Duchess, I thought Clifford a far nicer fellow than de Marmont. My dear sister, said the Compt stiffly, I really must ask you to think sometimes before you speak. Of a truth, you make suggestions and comments at times which literally stagger one.

I don't see anything so very stagher. staggering in the idea of a penniless aristocrat marrying a wealthy English gentleman. A gentleman, my dear, exclaimed the comte. Well, Mr. Clifford is a gentleman, isn't he? His family is irreproachable, I believe. Well, then, but Mr. Clifford, you know, my dear, no, I don't know, said Madame decisively. What is the matter with Mr. Clifford? well i didn't like to tell you sophie immediately on your arrival yesterday said the comte who was making visible efforts to mitigate the horror of what he was about to say but as a matter of fact this mr clifford whom you met in my

house last night who sat next to you at my table with whom you had that long and animated conversation afterwards is nothing better than a shopkeeper. No doubt, Monsieur Lecombe de Cambrai expected that at this awful announcement, Madame La Duchess's indignation and anger would know no bounds. He was quite ready, even now, with a string of apologies which he would formulate directly. She allowed him to speak. He certainly felt very guilty towards her for the understanding.

desirable acquaintance which she had made in her brother's own house. Great was his surprise, therefore, when madame's wrinkled face reethed itself into a huge smile, which presently broadened into a merry laugh as she threw back her head and said, still, laughing, a shopkeeper, my dear comte, a shopkeeper at your aristocratic table, and your meal did not choke you. Why, God, forgive you, but I do believe you are actually becoming human. I ought to have told you sooner, of course, began the comp, stiffly. Why, bless your heart, I knew it soon enough. You knew it? Of course I did. Mr. Clifford told me that interesting fact before he had finished eating his soup. Did he tell you that, that he traded?

in gloves? Well, and why not gloves, she retorted. Gloves are very nice things and better manufactured at Grenoble than anywhere else in the world. The English coquettes are very wise in getting their gloves from Grenoble through the good offices of Mr. Clifford. But my dear Sophie, Mr. Clifford, Mr. Clifford buys gloves here from Dumolin and sells them again to a shop in London. He buys and sells other things too and does it for profit. Of course he does. You don't suppose that anyone would do that sort of thing for pleasure, do you? Mr. Clifford, continued, Madame, with sudden seriousness, lost his father when he was six years old. His mother and four sisters had next to nothing to live on after the bulk of what they had went for the education of the boy.

At 18, he made up his mind that he would provide his mother and sisters with all the luxuries which they had lacked for so long. And instead of going into the army, which had been the burning ambition of his boyhood, he went into business and in less than 10 years has made a fortune. You seem to have learned a great deal of the man's family history in so short a time. I liked him, and I made him talk to me about himself. It was not easy, for these English men are stupidly reticent, but I dragged his story out of him bit by bit, or at least as much of it as I could,

and I can tell you, my good André, that never have I admired a man, so much as I do this Mr. Clifford, for never have I met so unselfish a one. I declare that if I were only a few years younger, she continued whimsically, and even so, hey, but I am not so old after all. My dear Sophie ejaculated the compt. A, what? She retorted tartly, you would object to a tradesman as a brother-in-law, would you? What about a de Marmont for a son, eh? Victor de Marmont is a soldier in the army of our legitimate king, his uncle, the Duke de Ragus. That's just it, broken madame again. I don't like De Marmont because he is a de Marmont. Is that the only reason for you're not liking him? The only one, she replied, but I must say that this Mr. Claremont.

"'You must not harp on that string, Sophie,' said the comp. "'It is too ridiculous. To begin with. Clifford never cared for Crystal. And secondly, Crystal was already engaged to De Marmont when Clifford arrived here. And thirdly, let me tell you that my daughter has far too much pride in her ever to think of a shopkeeper in the light of a husband, even if he has far too much pride in her ever to think of a shopkeeper in the light of a husband, even if he had ten times this Mr. Clifford's fortune, then everything is comfortably settled, Andre, and now that we have returned to our sheep

and have both arrived at the conclusion that nothing stands in the way of Crystal's marriage with Victor de Marmont, I suppose that I may presume that my audience is at an end. I only wished to hear your opinion, my good Sophie, rejoined Mouser Lacomte, and he rose stiffly from his chair. Well, and you have heard it, André, concluded madame, as she too rose and gathered her lace shawl round her shoulders.

You may thank God, my dear brother, that you have in crystal such an unselfish and obedient child, and in me such a submissive sister. Frankly, since you have chosen, you have chosen, to ask my opinion at this 11th hour. I don't like this de Marmont marriage, though I have admitted that I see nothing against the young man himself. If Crystal is not unhappy with him, I shall be content. If she is, I will make myself exceedingly disagreeable, both to him and to you. And that being my last word, I have the honor to wish you a polite, good day. She swept her brother an imperceptibly ironical curtsy, but he detained her once again as she turned to go. One word more, Sophie, he said solemnly, you will be amiable with Victor de Marmont this evening.

Of course I will, she replied tartly. Ah, sah, masseur, my brother, do you take me for a washerwoman? I am entertaining the preface for the super duke. contract, continued the Comte, quietly ignoring the old lady's irascibility of temper, and the general in command of the garrison. They are both converted Bonapartis, remember? Hum, grunted Madame Crossley, whom else are you going to entertain? Madame Fourier, the prefect's wife, and Mademoiselle Marchand, the General's daughter, and, of course, the deumbrance and the Genovoix.

Is that all? Some half-dozen or so notabilities of Grenoble, we shall sit down twenty to supper, and afterwards I hold a reception in honor of the coming marriage of Mademoiselle de Cambrai de Brestelo, with Monsieur Victor de Marmont. One must do one's duty, and pander to one's love of playing at being a little king in a limited way. I won't say anything more. I promise that I won't disgrace you, and that I'll put on a grand manner that will fill those worthy notabilities and their wives with awe and reverence. And now I'd best go, she added whimsically, ere my good resolutions break down before your pomposity. I suppose the louts from the village will be again braced up in those moth-eaten liveries, and the bottles of thin Maydock purchased surreptitiously at a local grocer's will be duly smothered

in the dust of ages. All right, all right, I'm going. For gracious sake, don't conduct me to the door, or I'll really disgrace you under Hector's uplifted nose. Oh, shades of cold beef and triackel pies of Worcester, and washing day, do you remember? All right, I'll write. I'll right, Masur, my brother, I am dumb as a carp at last. And with a final outburst of sarcastic laughter, Madame finally sailed across the room, while Massor fell back into his throne-like chair with a deep sigh of relief. End of Chapter 2, Part 2. Chapter 3, Part 1 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orxy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The Return of the Emperor

But even as Madame La Duchess Duer de Gen placed her aristocratic hand upon the handle of the door, it was opened from without, with what might almost be called undue haste, and Hector appeared in the doorway. Hector, in truth, but not the sober-faced, pompous, dignified Hector of the household of M. Lecomte-Decambre, but a red-visaged, excited, fussy, Hector, who, for the moment, seemed to have forgotten where he was, as well as the etiquette which surrounded the august personality of his master,

He certainly contrived to murmur a humble, if somewhat hasty apology, when he found himself confronted at the door by Madame La Duchess herself. But he did not stand aside to let her pass. She had stepped back into the room at sight of him, for obviously something very much amiss must have occurred, thus to ruffle Hector's ingrained. dignity, and even Monsieur Lecomte was involuntarily dragged out of his aristocratic aloofness, and almost, though not quite, jumped up from his chair. What is it, Hector? He exclaimed, peremptorily. Moseur Lecomte gasped Hector, who seemed to be out of breath from sheer excitement. The Corsican, he has come back. he is marching on Grenoble.

M. Le Prefet is here, but already Monsieur Lecomte had, with a wave of the hand, as it were, swept the unwelcome news aside. What rubbish is this? He said wrathfully. You have been dreaming in broad daylight, Hector,

and this excitement is most unseemly. Show Madame La Duchess to her apartments, he added with a great show of calm. Hector, thus reproved, colored a yet more violent crimson to the very roots of his hair. He made a great effort to recover his pomposity and actually took up the correct attitude, which a well-trained servant assumes when he shows a great lady out of a room. But even then, despite the well-merited reproof, he took it upon himself to insist. M. Le Prefet is here, Monsieur Le Compt, he added, and begs to be received at once.

Well, then, you may show him up when Madame La Duchess has retired, said the Comte, with quiet dignity. By your leave, my brother, quoth the Duchess decisively, I'll wait and hear what Monsieur le Prophet has to say. The news, if news there be, is too interesting to be kept waiting for me, and accustomed as she was to get her own way in everything, Madame La Duchess calmly sailed back into the room and once more sat down in the chair beside her brother's bureau, whilst Hector, with as much grandeur of men as he could assume under the circumstances,

was still waiting for orders. M. Lecomte would undoubtedly have preferred that his sister should leave the room before the prophet was shown in. He did not approve of women taking part in political conversations, and his manner now plainly showed to Medea. la Duchess that he would like to receive Monsieur le Prefet alone. But he said nothing, probably because he knew that words would be useless if Madame had made up her mind to remain, which she evidently had. So after a brief pause, he said curtly to Hector, show Monsieur Le Prefet in. He took up his favorite position in his throne-shaped chair, one leg bent, the other stretched out, displaying

to advantage the shapely calf and well-shodd foot. M. La Prefitte, Fourier, mathematician of great renown and member of the Institute, was one of those converted Bonapartists to whom it behooved at all times to teach a lesson of decorum and dignity. And certainly, when presently, Hector showed Massour Fourier-Fourier in the two men, the aristocrat of the old regime, and the bureaucrat of the new, presented a marked and curious contrast. M. La Comte de Cambrai calm and perturbed, slightly supercilious, in a studied attitude. and moving with pompous deliberation to greet his guest, and Jacques Fourier, man of science,

and prefect of the Isserre department, short of stature, scant of breath, florid, and florid. Both men were conscious of the contrast, and Monsieur Fourier Fourier did his very best to approach Madame La Duchess with a semblance of dignity, and to kiss her hand in something of the approved courtly manner. When he had finally sat down and mopped his streaming forehead, M. La Comte said with kindly condescension,

You are perturbed, my good Mouser Fourier. Alas, Mouser Lecomte, replied the worthy prefect, still somewhat out of breath. How can I help being agitated? this awful news. What news? queried the Comte with a lifting of the brows, which was meant to convey complete detachment and indifference to the subject matter? What news? exclaimed the prophet, who, on the other hand, was unable to contain his agitation and had obviously given up the attempt. Haven't you heard? No, replied the Comte, and, Dam also shook her head. Town Gossip does not travel as far as the castle of Brestolo, added

M. LaCompte gravely. Town Gossip, reiterated Mouser Forier, who seemed to be calling heaven to witness this extraordinary levity. Town gossip, Moseau LaCompte, but God in heaven help us all. Bonaparte landed at Antibis five days ago. He was at Cisteron this morning, and unless the earth opens and swallows him up, he will be on us by Tuesday. Bah, you have had a nightmare, Mr. Lepreffat rejoined the Compt dryly. We have had news of the landing of Bonaparte at least once a month this half year passed. But it is authentic news this time, Monsieur Le Comte. retorted Fourier, who gradually, under the influence of de Cambrai's calm demeanor,

had succeeded in keeping his agitation in check. The prefit of the VAR department, Massor Lecomte de Bufilié sent an express courier on Thursday last to the prophet of the Basses Alps, who sent that courier straight on to me, telling me that he and General General Lovardo, who is in command of the troops in that district, promptly evacuated Degu because they were not certain of the loyalty of the garrison. The Corsican, it seems, only landed with about a thousand of his old guard. But since then, the troops in every district which he has traversed, have deserted in a body, and rallied round his standard. It has been, so I hear, a triumphal march for him from the Litterell to Dina, and together the news which the courier brought me

this morning was of such alarming nature that I thought it my duty, Monsieur Lecomte, to apprise you of it immediately. That, said M. La Comte condescendingly, was exceedingly thoughtful and considerate, my good Mouser, Fourier, and what is the alarming news? Firstly, that Bonaparte made something like a state entry into Dina yesterday. The city was beflagged and decorated. The National Guard turned out and presented arms. Drums were beating. The population acclaimed him with cries of Viva la Emperor. The prophet and the general in command had intended to resist his entry into the city,

but all the nobilities of the town forced them into submission. Duval, the prophet, fled to a neighboring village, taking the public funds with him, while General Leverdo with a mere handful of loyal troops has retreated on Cisteron. Though Monsieur Lecombe de Cambrai had listened to the prefect's narrative with all his habitual grandeur of Mien, it soon became obvious that some of his aristocratic Sengfroy

had already abandoned him. His furrowed cheeks had become a shade paler than usual, and the slender hand which toyed with an ivory, paper knife on his desk had not its wanted steadiness. Madame La Duchess perceived this, no doubt, for her keen eyes were fixed scrutinizingly upon her brother. She saw, too, that his thin lips were quivering, and that the reason why he had made no comment on what he had just heard was because he could not quite trust himself to

speak. It was she, therefore, who now remarked quietly, and in your department, Messore La Prefitte, in Grenoble itself, is the garrison equally likely to go over to the Corsican brigand. M. Forrier shrugged his shoulders. He was not at all sure. After what has happened at Dignay, Madame La Duchess, he said, I would not care to prophecy. General Marchand does not intend to trust entirely to the garrison. He has sent to Vienne and to Chamboree for reinforcements, but the pre-fap was hesitating. Evidently, he had not a great deal of faith in the loyalty of those reinforcements either. M. Lecomte made a vigorous protest. Surely, Monsieur Fior Fiorier, he said, you don't meet to suggest that Grenoble is going to turn traitor to the king. But Massor Le Prefet apparently had meant to

suggest it. Alas, Monsieur Le Comte, he said, we must always bear in mind that the whole of the Dauphine has remained throughout a bed of Bonapartism. But in that case ejaculated the Comte. General Marchand is doing all he can. can to ensure effectual resistance, Monsieur Lecomte. But we are in the hands of the army, and the army has never been truly loyal to the king. At the bottom of every soldier's haversack, there is an old and worn tricolor cockade, which is there ready to be fetched out at a moments notice and will be fetched out at the mere sound of the Corsican's voice. We are in the hands of the army, Massor Lecomte, and in the Dauphine. Alas, the army is only too ready to cry,

Viva, la Emperor. There was silence in this stately room now, silence only broken by the tapping of the ivory paper knife, with which Monsieur Lecomte was still nervously fidgeting. Monsieur Fourier was wiping the perspiration from his overheated brow. For God's sake, Andre, stop that irritating noise, said Madame Duchess after a while. That tapping has got on my nerves. I beg your pardon, Sophie, said the Comte loftily. He was offended with her, for. drawing Monsieur Fourier's attention to his own nervous restlessness, yet grateful to be thus forcibly

made aware of it himself. His attitude was on the verge of incorrectness. Where was the aristocratic sangfroy, which should have made him proof even against so much perturbing news? What had become of the lesson in decorum which should have been taught to this vulgar little bureaucrat. M. Lecomte pulled himself together with a jerk. He straightened

out his spare figure, put on that air of detachment, which became him so well, and finally turned once more to the prophet, a perfectly calm and unruffled countenance. Then

he said with his accustomed urbanity. And now, my good, Monsieur Fourier, since you have so admirably put the situation before me, will you also tell me in what way I may be of service to you in this or to General Marchand? I am coming to that, Monsieur Lecomte, replied the prophet. It will explain the reason of my disturbing you at this hour when I was coming anyhow to partake of your gracious hospitality later on. But I do want your assistance, Monsieur Lecomte, as the matter of which I wish to speak with you concerns the king himself. Everything that you have told me hitherto, my good Monsieur Fourier, concerns his majesty and the security of his throne. I cannot help wonder.

how much of this news has reached him by now. All of it at this hour, I should say, for already on Friday the Prince de Esling sent a dispatch to His Majesty by courier as far as lions and thence by aerial telegraph to Paris. The king, may God preserve him, added the ex-Bonapartist fervently, knows as much of the Corsican's movement. at the present moment as we do, and God alone knows what he will decide to do. Whatever happens, interjected the Compt de Cambre solemnly. Louis de Bourbon, 18th of his name, by the grace of God, will act like a king and a gentleman. Amen to that, retorted the prophet, and now let me come to my point, Monsieur Lecomte,

and the chief object of my visit to you. I am at your service, my dear Monsieur Fourier. You will remember, Monsieur Lecomte, that directly you were installed at Brestolo, and I was confirmed in my position as preface of this department. I thought it was my duty to tell you of the secret funds which are kept in the cellars of our Hotel de Ville by order of of Monsieur de Taligrand. Yes, of course, I remember that perfectly. French money, which the unfortunate wife of that brigand Bonaparte was taking out of the country. Quite so, assented Fourier. The funds are in a convenient and portable form, being chiefly notes and banker's drafts to bearer, but the amount is considerable, namely 25 millions of francs.

A comfortable sum interposed Madame La Duchess dryly. I did not know that Grenoble sheltered so vast a treasure. The money was seized, said the Comte, from Marie-Louise when she was fleeing the country. Talleyrand did it all, and it was his idea. to keep the money in this part of the country against likely emergencies. But the emergency has arisen, exclaimed Monsieur Fourier excitedly, and the money at Grenoble is useless to His Majesty in Paris. Nay, it is worse than useless. It is in danger of spoliation.

He added with unconscious naivete, if the Corsican marches into Grenoble, if the garrison and the townspeople rally to him he will of a truth occupy the hotel de ville and the brigand will seize the king's treasure which lies now in one of its cellars true mused the comte i hadn't thought of that well exclaimed madame with light sarcasm seeing that the money was originally taken from his wife the brinked will not be committing an altogether unlikely act, I imagine, by taking what was originally his. His, my good Sophie, exclaimed the Comte, highly shocked. Money robbed by that usurper from France, his. We won't argue, Andre, said Madame sharply. Let us hear what Massor Le Prophet proposes. propose Madame La Duchess ejaculated the unfortunate preface. I have nothing to propose. I am at my wits and what to do. I came to Monsieur Lecomte for advice. And you were quite right, my dear Monsieur

Fourier said the comte affably. He paused for a few seconds in order to collect his thoughts, then continued. Now let us consider this question from every side, and then see to what conclusion we can arrive that will be for the best. Firstly, of course, there is the possibility of your following the example of the preface of the Bassus Alps and taking yourself and the money to a convenient place outside Grenoble. But at this suggestion, Messor Forier was ready to burst into. tears. Impossible, Monsieur Lecomte. He cried pitiably. I could not do it. Where could I go? The existence of the

money is known, known to the Bonapartis, I am convinced. There's Dumolin, the glovemaker. He knows everything that goes on in Grenoble, and his friend Emery, who is an army surgeon in the pay of Bonaparte. Both these men have been to and from Elba incessantly these past few months. Then there's the Bonapartist Club in Grenoble with a membership of over 2,000. The members have friends and spies everywhere, even inside the Hotel de Ville. Why, the other day, I had to dismiss a servant who, Easy, Monsieur Le Prefitt, broke in Massor Lecomte. impatiently. The long and the short of it is that you would not feel safe with the money anywhere

outside Grenoble, or inside it, Monsieur Lecomte. Very well, then, the money must be deposited there where it will be safe. Now, what do you think of DuPont's bank? Oh, Monsieur Lecomte, an avowed Bonapartist, Monsieur de Talleyrand would not trust him with the money last year. It is so, but it seems to me, here interposed Madame La Duchess abruptly, that by far the best plan, since this district seems to be a hotbed of disloyalty, would be to convey the money straightway to Paris, and then the king, or Monsieur de Talleyrand, can dispose of it as best they like. Ah, Madame La Duchess, sighed Massour Fourier ecstatically as he clasped his

podgy little hands together and looked on Madame with eyes full of admiration for her wisdom. How cleverly that was spoken! If only I could be relieved from that awful responsibility, five and twenty millions under my charge and that corsican ogre at our gates. That is all very well, quoth the Comte with marked impatience, but how is it going to be done? Convey the money to Paris is easily said, but who is going to do it? Moseur Le Prefet here says that the Bonapartis have spies everywhere round Grenoble,

and, ah, Monsieur Lecomte, exclaimed the prefit eagerly, I have already thought of such a beautiful plan, if only you would consent. M. Lecomte's thin lips curled in a sarcastic smile. Oh, you have thought it all out already, Monsieur le Prefet, he said, well let me hear your plan but i warn you that i will not have the money brought here i don't have trust the peasantry of the neighborhood and i won't have a fight or an outrage committed in my house m le prefit was ready with a protest no no monsieur le comte he said i wouldn't suggest such a thing for the world if the corsican brigand is success in capturing Grenoble. No place would be sacred to him. No, my idea was if you, Monsieur le Comte, who have oft before journeyed to Paris and back, would do it now, before Bonaparte gets any nearer to Grenoble and take the money with you. I exclaimed

the Comte, but man, if, as you say, Grenoble is full of Bonapartist spies, my movements are, no doubt, just as closely watched as your own. No, no, Monsieur le Comte, not quite so closely, I am sure. The insinuating manner of the worthy man, however, was apparently getting on Monsieur Lecompt's nerves. Ah, sah, Monsieur le Prefet, he ejaculated abruptly, but me seems that the splendid plan you thought, on merely consists in transferring responsibility from your shoulders to mine own. And Monsieur

Lecomte cast such a wrathful look on poor Monsieur de la Forier that the unfortunate man was stricken dumb with confusion. Moreover, concluded the Comte, I don't know that you, Monsieur le Préphette, have the right to dispose of this money, which was entrusted to you, by Monsieur de Taligrand in the king's behalf, without consulting his majesty's wishes in the matter. Bah, Andre, broke in the Duchess in her incisive way. You are talking nonsense, and you know it. There is no time for red tapism now with that ogre at our gates. How are you going to consult His Majesty's wishes, who is in Paris, between now, and Tuesday I would like to know, she added with a shrug of the shoulders,

whereupon M. Lecomte waxed politely sarcastic. Perhaps he said, you would prefer us to consult yours. You might do worse, she retorted imperturbably. The question is one which is very easily solved. Ought His Majesty the King to have that money, or should Monsieur le Prophet here take the risk of its falling in Bonaparte's hands? Answer me that, she said decisively, and then I will tell you how best to succeed in carrying out your own wishes. What a question, my good Sophie, said the comp, stiffly. Of course we desire His Majesty to have what is rightfully his. You mean he ought to have the 25 millions which the Prince de Benevant stole from Marie-Louise.

Very well, then. Obviously, that money ought to be taken to Paris before Bonaparte gets much nearer to Grenoble. But it should not be taken by you, my good André, nor yet by Monsieur Le Préphette. By whom then queried the Compt irritably. By me? replied, Madame La Duchess. By you, Sophie, impossible. And God alive, why impossible, I pray you, she retorted. The money, I understand, is in a very portable form, notes and bankers drafts, which can be stowed away quite easily. Why shouldn't I be journeying back to Paris after Crystal's wedding? Who would suspect me, I should like to know, of carrying twenty-five, millions under my petticoats. All I should want would be a couple of sturdy fellows on the box

to protect me against foot pads. Impossible? She continued tartly. Men are always so ready with that word. Get a sensible woman, I say, and she will solve your difficulties before you have finished exclaiming, Impossible. And she looked triumphantly from one man to the other. There was obvious relief on the ruddy face of little Monsieur Fourier, and even Monsieur Lecomte was visibly taken with the idea. Well, he at last condescended to say it does sound feasible after all. Feasible, of course it's feasible, said madame, with a shrug of contempt. Either the king is in want of the money, or he is not. Either Bonaparte is likely to get it, or he is not.

If the king wants it, he must have it at any cost and any risk. 25 millions in Bonaparte's hands at this juncture would help him to reconstitute his army and make it very unpleasant for the king and for us all. Massor La Prefitt, who has been in charge of the money all along, and Massor Lecomte de Cambrai, who is the only true royalist in the district, are both marked down by spies. Ergo, Madame La Duchess de Agen is the only possible agent for the business, and an inoffensive old woman without any political standing is the least likely to be molest.

in her task. If I fail, I fail, concluded Madame decisively. If I am stopped on the way and the money taken from me, well, I am stopped, that's all. And Monsieur le preffat, or Monsieur Le Compt de Canberra, or any male agent they may have sent, would have been stopped likewise. But I maintain that a woman traveling alone is far safer at this business and more likely to succeed than a man. So now, for God's sake, don't let's argue any more about it. Crystal is to be married on Tuesday, and I could start that same afternoon. Can you bring the money over with you tonight? She put her query directly to the prophet, who was obviously overjoyed and intensely

relieved at the suggestion. M. La Comte, too, seemed to be won over by his sister's persuasive rhetoric. Her strength of mind and firmness of purpose always imposed themselves

on those over whom she chose to exert her will, and men of somewhat weak character, like the Comte de Cambre, came very easily under the sway of her dominating personality. But he thought it incumbent upon his dignity to make one more protest before he finally

yielded to his sister's arguments. I don't like, he said, the idea of your traveling alone through the country without sufficient escort. The roads are none too safe, and, bah, broken madame impatiently. I pray you, Massore, my brother, to strengthen your arguments if you are really determined to oppose this sensible scheme of mine.

Traveling alone forsooth, did I not arrive only yesterday, having traveled all the way from Boulogne, and with no escort save two louts on the box of a hired coach. You chose to travel

alone, my dear sister, for reasons best known to yourself, retorted the Comte, greatly angered that Monsieur le Préphet should hear the fact that Madame La Duchess Duerier had traveled at any time without an escort, and who shall say me nay, if I choose to travel back alone again, I should like to know? So now, if you have exhausted your string of objections, my dear brother, Perhaps you will allow Monsieur le Prefet to answer my question. Whereupon Monsieur Le Prefet promptly satisfied Madame La Duchess on the point, he certainly could and would bring the money over with him this evening,

and Monsieur Lecomte had no further objections to offer. In the archives of the Ministry of War in Paris, anyone who looks may read that in the subsequent trial of General Marchand for high treason after the Hundred Days and Napoleon's second abdication, Prefit Fourier, during the course of his evidence, gave a detailed account of this same interview, which he had with M. Lecomte de Cambre and Madame La Ducce de Guernet on Sunday, March the 5th. In his deposition, he naturally laid great stress upon his own zeal in the matter, declaring that he, it was, who finally overcame by his eloquence,

M. Lecomp's objections to the scheme, and decided him to give his acquiescence thereto. Certain it is that there was but little argument after this between Madame La Duchess and the two men, and that the details of the scheme were presently discussed soberly and in all their bearings. I shall have the honor presently, said Fourier, of coming back here to respond to Mouser Lecomte's gracious invitation to dinner. Why shouldn't I bring the money with me then? Indeed, you must bring the money then, retorted the irascible old lady, and let there be no shirking or delay. Promptitude is our great chance of success.

I ought not to start later than Tuesday, and I could do so soon after the wedding ceremony. I could arrange to sleep at Lyons that night, at Desjohn the next day, be in Paris by Thursday evening, and in the king's presence on Friday. Provided you are not delayed, side the conversation. prompt. If I am delayed, my good André, then anyhow the game is up. But we are not going to anticipate misfortune, and we are going to believe in our lucky star. Would to God I could

bring myself to approve wholeheartedly of this expedition? The whole thing seems to me chivalrous and romantic, rather than prudent, and heaven knows how prudent we should be, just now. You look back on history, my dear brother, remarked Madame Dreyly, and you'll see that more great events have been brought about by chivalry and romance than by prudence and circumspection. The romance of Joan of Arc delivered France from foreign yoke. The chivalry of Francois I, first saved the honor of France after the disaster of Pavi, and it certainly was not Prudence, which set Henry of Navarre upon the throne of France and in the heart of his people. So for gracious's sake, do not let us talk of prudence anymore. Rather, let us allow M.

Le Preffat to return quietly to the Hotel de Ville so that he and Madame Forier may proceed to dress for tonight's ceremony, just as if nothing untoward had happened. In the meanwhile, I will complete my preparations for Tuesday. There are one or two little details in connection with my journey, hostelries, servants, horses, and so on, which you, my dear, andre will kindly decide for me. And now, gentlemen, she added, rising from her chair, I have the honor to wish you both a very good afternoon. She did not wait long enough to allow Messer Lecomte, time to ring for Hector, and she appeared so busy with her lace shawl that she was unable to do more than acknowledge, with a slight inclination of the head,

Monsieur le Prefet's respectful salute. But then Madame la Duchess, Duer, Dajun, though a fervent royalist herself, had a wholesome contempt for these opportunists. Forier, celebrated mathematician, loaded with gifts and honors by Napoleon, who had made him a member, of the Institute of Science, and given him the prefecture of the Assaire, had turned his coat very readily at the restoration, and the oaths of loyalty which he had tendered to the emperor seemed not to weigh over heavily upon his conscience when he reiterated them to the king. Madame La Duchess de Adjan, therefore, did not willingly place her aristocratic fingers in the hand of a renegade who she felt might turn renegade again if his personal interest so dictated it.

Perhaps something of what lay behind madame's curt nod to him struck the prefect's sensibilities for the high color suddenly fled from his round face, and he did not attempt to approach her for the ceremonial hand-cissing. But he ran across the room as fast as his short legs would carry him, and he opened the door for her and bowed to her as she sailed past him with all the deference, which in the olden days of the empire he had accorded. to the Empress Marie-Louise. It is a mad scheme, my good Monsieur Fourier sighed the Comte when he found himself once more alone with the prefect, but such as it is, I can think of nothing better. Monsieur Lecomte exclaimed the prophet with delight, no one could think of anything better. Ah, the women

of France, he added ecstatically, the women, How often have they saved France in moments of crisis? France owes her grandeur to her women, M. Le Compt. And also her reverses, my dear Mouser Fourier, remarked the Compt dryly. When Bobby Clifford came back to Brestolo, after his long days' ride, he found the stately rooms of the old castle already prepared for the arrival of Moussor Lecompt's guests. The large reception hall had been thrown open as after supper,

Monsieur Lecomte would be receiving some of the notabilities of Grenoble in honor of a great occasion, the signature of the contract de marriage between Mademoiselle, Crystal, de Cambrai de Brestolo, and Monsieur Victor de Marmont. There was an array of liveried servants in the hall, and along the corridor through which Bobby had to pass on the way to his own room, their liveries of purple with canary facings, the heraldic colors of the family of Cambrai de Brestolo, hardly showed in the flickering light of wax candles, the many ravages of moth and mildew, which 20 years of neglect had wrought upon the once fine and brilliant. cloth. Downstairs, the formal supper, which was to precede the reception, was laid for 20 guests.

The table was resplendent, with the silver so kindly lent by a benevolent and far-seeing king, to those of his friends who had not the means of replacing the ancient family treasures filched from them by the revolutionary government. There were no flowers. There were no flowers, upon the table, and only very few wax candles burned in the Ormolu and crystal chandelier overhead. Flowers and wax candles were luxuries, which must be paid for with ready money, a commodity which was exceedingly scarce in the grandiose Chateau de Brestelo. But they also were a luxury which could be easily dispensed with, for did not Monsieur Lecomte de Cambre set the fashions and give the tone to the whole department. And if he chose to have no flowers upon his supper table and but few candles in his silver sconces,

why then society must take it for granted that such now was bantan and the prevailing fashion at the Tulleries. Bobby, knowing his host's fastidious, tastes in such matters, had made a very careful toilet, all the while that his thoughts were busy with the wonderful news which Emery had brought this day and which was all over Grenoble by now. He and his two companions had left Notre Dame de Vauxes soon after their designeur, and together had entered the city. And together had entered the city. at five o'clock in the afternoon. On their way, they had encountered the traveling coach of General Mouton Duvare, who accompanied by his aide-de-camp, was on his way to Gap, where he intended to organize strong resistance against Bonaparte. He parlayed some time with Emery, whom he knew by sight,

and suspected of being an emissary of the Corsican. Emery, with true southern verve, gave the worthy general a highly colored account of the triumphal progress through province and the Dauphine of Napoleon, whom he boldly called the emperor. Mouton, in no way belying his name, was very upset not only by the news, but by his own helplessness with regard to Emery, who he knew would presently be in Grenoble, distributing the usurpers' proclamations all over the city, whilst he, Mouton, with his one aide-de-camp, and a couple of loudish servants on the box of his coach,

could do nothing to detain him. As soon as the three men had ridden away, however, he sent his aide-de-camp back to Grenoble by Ernieuble, by a roundabout way, ordering him to make as great speed as possible, and to see General Marshawn as soon as may be, so that immediate measures might be taken to prevent that emissary, if not from entering the city, at least from posting up proclamations on public buildings. But Muton's aid to camp was no match against the enthusiasm and, if ingenuity of Emery and de Marmont, and when he, in his turn, entered Grenoble soon after

five o'clock, he was confronted by the printed proclamations, signed by the familiar and dreaded name, Napoleon, affixed to the gates of the city, to the Hotel de Ville, the Marie, the prison, the barracks, and to every street corner in Grenoble. The three friends had parted at the Port de Bon, Emery to go to his friend Dumolin, the glovemaker, de Marmont to his lodgings in the rue Montaurs, whilst Bobby Clifford rode straight back to Brestelo. A couple of hours later, Victor de Marmont had also arrived at the castle. He too had made an elaborate toilet and then had driven over in a Hackney coach in advance of the other guests, seeing that he desired to have a final interview with Monsieur Lecomte, before he affixed his name to his contract to merge

with Mademoiselle de Cambrai. An air of solemnity sat well upon his good-looking face, but it was obvious that he was trying, somewhat in vain, to keep an inwardly. excitement in check. M. M. La Comte de Cambrai, believing that this excitement was entirely due to the solemnity of the occasion, had smiled indulgently, a trifle contemptuously to, at young de Marmont's very apparent eagerness, a vulgar display of feelings, an inability to control one's words and movements, when under the stress of emotion was characteristic of the parvenues of today, and de Marmont's unfettered agitation when coming to sign his own marriage contract was only on a par with preface Fourier's nervousness this afternoon.

The Comte received his future son-in-law with a gracious smile, the thought of an alliance between Mademoiselle de Cambrai de Brestes. and a de Marmont of nowhere had been a bitter pill to swallow, but Monsieur Lecomte was too proud to show how distasteful it had been, chatting pleasantly the two men repaired together to the library. Bobby Clifford, immaculately dressed in fine cloth coat and satin breeches with fine mechlin lace at throat and wrist, and his light brown hair tied. at the nape of the neck with a big black bow came down presently to the reception room. He found the place silent and deserted, but the stately apartment looked more cozy and home-like than usual.

A cheerful fire was burning in the monumental hearth, and the soft light of the candles, fixed in sconces round the walls, tempered to a certain degree that bare and severe look. of past grandeur, which usually hung upon every corner of the old chateau. Clifford went up to the tall hearth. He rested his hand on the ledge of the mantle, and leaning his forehead against it, he stared moodily into the fire. Thoughts of all that he had learned in the past few hours of the new chapter in the book of the destinies of France begun a few days ago. in the Bay of Jeanne, crowded in upon his mind. What difference would the unfolding of that new chapter make to the destinies of the Comte de Cambrai and of Crystal? What had fate in store

for the bold adventurer who was marching across France with a handful of men to reconquer a throne and remake an empire? What had she in store for the stiff-necked around? aristocrat of the old regime, who still believed that God himself had made special laws for the benefit of one class of humanity, and that he had even created them differently to the rest of mankind. And what had fate in store for the beautiful, delicate girl whose future had been so arbitrarily settled by two men, father and lover, one, the buyer, one, the buyer, the other, the seller of her exquisite person, the shrine of her pure and idolistic soul, and bargained for by father and lover as the price of so many acres of land, a farm, a chateau,

an ancestral estate. Father and lover were sitting together even now discussing values, the purchase price. You give me back my lands. I will give you my daughter. Blood money, soul money, Clifford called it, as he ground his teeth together in impotent rage. What folly it was to care! What folly to have allowed the tendrils of his over-sensitive heart to twine themselves round this beautiful girl, who was as far removed from his destiny as were the ambitions of his boyhood, the hopes, the dreams, which the hard circumstances of fate had forced him to bury beneath the grave mound of rigid and unswerving duty. But what a dream it had been, this love for Crystal de Cambrai. It had filled his entire soul from the moment when first he saw her, down in the

garden under an avenue of Ilex trees, which cast their mysterious shadows. over her. Her father had called to her, and she had come across to where he, Clifford, stood silently watching this approaching vision of loveliness, which never would vanish from his mental gaze again. Even at that supreme moment when her blue eyes, her sweet smile, the exquisite grace of her, took possession of his soul, even then he knew already, that his dream could have but one awakening. She was already plighted to another, a happier man, but even if she were free, Crystal could never have bestowed a thought upon the stranger. The commonplace tradesman, whose only merit in her sight, lay in his friendship with another gallant English gentleman.

And knowing this, when he saw her after that, day after day, hour after hour, poor Bobby Clifford grew reconciled to the knowledge that the gates of his paradise would forever be locked against him. He grew contented just to peep through those gates, and the angel, who was on guard there, holding the flaming sword of cast prejudice against him, would relent at times and allow him to linger on the threshold and to gaze into a semblance. of happiness. Those thoughts, those dreams, those longings he had been able to endure. Today, reality had suddenly become more insistent and more stern. The angel's flaming sword would sear his soul after this if he lingered any longer by the enchanted gates, and thus

had the semblance of happiness yielded at last to dull regret. He sank into a a chair and buried his face in his hands. The sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the soft frou-frew of a woman's skirt, roused him from his gloomy reverie and caused him to jump to his feet. Mademoiselle Crystal was coming across the long reception room, walking with a slow and weary step toward the hearth. She was obviously not yet aware of Clifford's presence, and he had full leisure to watch her as she approached, to note the pallor of her cheeks and lips, and that pathetic look of childlike self-pity and almost of appeal, which veiled the brilliance of her deep blue eyes. A moment later, she saw him and came more

quickly across the room with hand extended, and an air of gracious condescension in her. her whole attitude. Ah, Missour Clifford, she said in perfect English, I did not know you were here, and all alone. My father, she added, is occupied with serious matters downstairs, else he would have been here to receive you. I know, mademoiselle, he said, after he had kissed the tips of three cold little fingers, which had been held out to him. My friend de Marmont is with him, just now, he desired to speak with Monsieur Lecomte in private on a matter which closely concerns his happiness. Ah, then you knew, she asked coldly. Yes, mademoiselle, I knew, he replied. She had settled herself down in a high-backed chair close to the hearth, the ruddy light of the wood fire, played upon her white

satin gown upon her bare arms and the ends of her lace scarf upon her satin shoes and the bunch of snowdrops at her breast. But her face was in shadow and she did not look up at Clifford, whilst he, poor fool, stood before her, absorbed in the contemplation of this dainty picture, which mayhap, after tonight, would never gladden his eyes again. You are a great friend of Monsieur de Marmont, she added after a while. Oh, mademoiselle, a friend? He replied with a self-deprecatory shrug of the shoulders. Friendship is too great a name to give to our chance acquaintanceship. I met Victor de Marmont less than a fortnight ago in Grenoble. Ah, yes, I had forgotten. He told me that he had first met you

at the house of a Monsieur de Mollin. In the shop of M.our de Mollin, mademoiselle, broke in Clifford with his good-humored smile, Moseau de Mollin, the glove-maker, with whom I was transacting business at the moment when Mourmet de Marmont walked in in order to buy himself a pair of gloves. Of course, she added coldly, I had forgotten.

You were not likely to remember such a doctor, trivial circumstance, mademoiselle. M. M.ormant saw me after that, here as guest in your father's house. He was greatly surprised at finding me, a mere tradesman, in such an honored position. Surprise laid the foundation of pleasing intercourse between us. But you see, mademoiselle, that Mour de Marmont has no cause to boast of his friendship with me. Ah, Monsieur de Marmont is not so prejudiced. As you are, mademoiselle, he asked quietly, for she had paused, and he saw that she bit her lips

with her tiny white teeth, as if she meant to check the words that would come tumbling out. Thus directly questioned, she gave a little shrug of disdain. My opinions in the matter are not in question, sir, she said coldly. She smothered a little yawn, which may have been due to unwee, but also to the tingling of her nerves. Clifford saw that her hands were never still for a moment. She was either fingering the snowdrops in her belt or smoothing out the creases in her lace scarf. From time to time, she raised her head, and a tense expression came into her face, as if she were trying to listen to what was going on elsewhere in the house, downstairs perhaps, in the library, where she was being

finally bargained for and sold. Clifford felt an intense and unreasoning pity for her, and because of that pity, the gentle kinsman of fierce love, he found it in his heart to forgive her all her prejudices, that almost arrogant pride of caste which was in her blood, for which she was no more responsible than she was for the color of her hair, or the vivid blue of her eyes. She seemed so forlorn, such a child, in the midst of all this decadent grandeur. She was being so ruthlessly sacrificed for ideals that were no longer tenable, that had ceased to be tenable five and twenty years ago when this chateau and these lands, were overrun by a savage and vengeful mob who were loudly demanding the right to live in happiness,

in comfort, and in freedom. That right had been denied to them through the past centuries by those who were of her own kith and kin, and it was snatched with brutal force, with lust of hate and thirst for reprisals by the revolutionary crowd when it came. into its own at last. Something of the pity which he felt for this beautiful and innocent victim of rancor, oppression, and prejudice must have been manifest in Clifford's earnest eyes, for when Crystal looked up to him and met his glance, she drew herself up with an air of haughty detachment. And with that, she wished to convey still more tension. to him, the idea of that barrier of caste which must forever divide her from him.

Obviously, his look of pity had angered her, for now, she said abruptly, and with marked coldness, my father tells me, sir, that you are thinking of leaving France shortly. Indeed, mademoiselle, he replied, I have trespassed too long as it is on Monsieur lecom. prompt gracious hospitality. My visit originally was only for a fortnight. I thought of leaving for England tomorrow. A little lift of the eyebrows and unnecessary smoothing of an invisible crease in her gown, and Crystal asked lightly, before the, my wedding, sir? Before your wedding, mademoiselle. She frowned, vaguely stirred to irritation by his ill-concealed. indifference. I trust, she rejoined pointedly, that you are satisfied with your trade in Grenoble.

The little shaft was meant to sting, but if Bobby felt any pain, he certainly appeared to bear it with perfect, good humor. I am quite satisfied, he said. I thank you, mademoiselle. It must be very pleasing to conclude such affairs satisfactorily, she continued. Very pleasing, Madam of course given the right temperament for such a career it must be so much more comfortable to spend one's life in making money buying and selling things and so on rather than to risk it every day for the barren honor of serving one's king and country as you say mademoiselle he said quite imperturbably given the right temperament it certainly is much more much more than you say mademoiselle he said quite imperturbably given the right temperament it certainly is much more comfortable. And you, sir, I take it, are the happy possessor of such a temperament.

I suppose so, mademoiselle. You are content to buy and to sell and to make money, to rest at ease and let the men who love their country and their king fight for you and for their ideals. Her voice had suddenly become trenchant and hard. Her manner contemptuous at strange variance with the indifferent kindliness, wherewith she had hitherto seemed to regard her father's English guest. Certainly her nerves, he thought, were very much on edge, and no doubt his own always unruffled calm, the combined product of temperament, nationality, and education,

had an irritating effect upon her. Had he not been so intensely stoutly, sorry for her, he would have resented this final taunt of hers, an arrow shot this time with intent to wound. But as it was, he merely said with a smile, surely, Mademoiselle, my contentment with my own lot and any other feelings of which I may be possessed are of such very little consequence, seeing that they are only the feelings of a very commonplace tradesman. that they are not worthy of being discussed. Then as quickly her manner changed, the contemptuous look vanished from her eyes, the sarcastic curl from her lips. And with one of those quick

transitions of mood, which were perhaps the principal charm of Crystal de Cambrai's personality, she looked up at Bobby with a winning smile and an appeal for forgiveness. Your pardon, sir, she said softly, I was shrewish and ill-tempered, and deserve a severe lesson in courtesy. I did not mean to be disagreeable, she added with a little sigh, but my nerves are all a quiver today, and this awful news has weighed upon my spirit. What awful news, mademoiselle? He asked, surely you have heard. You mean the news about Napoleon. I mean the awful certainty. She retorted with a sudden outburst of vehemence that that brigand, that usurper, that scourge of mankind, has escaped from an all-to-leinant prison where he should never have been confined, seeing how easy was escape from it.

I mean that all the horrors of the past 20 years will begin again now. misery, starvation, exile, probably. End of Chapter 3, Part 1. Chapter 3, Part 2 of The Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orxie. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. Oh, surely, she added with ever-increasing passion, surely God will not permit such an awful thing to happen. Surely he will strike the ogre dead, ere he devastates France once again. I am afraid that you must not reckon quite so much on divine interference, mademoiselle,

a nation like every single individual must shape its own destiny and must not look to God to help it in its political aims. And France must look once more to England, I suppose, pose, it is humiliating to be always in need of help, she said with an impatient little sigh. Each nation in its turn has it in its power to help a sister. Sometimes help may come from the weaker vessel. Do you remember the philosopher's fable of the lion and the mouse? France may be the mouse just now. Someday it may be in her power to requite the lion.

She shook her head reprovingly. I don't know, she said, that I approve of your calling France, the mouse. I only did so in order to drive my parable still further home. Then as she looked a little puzzled, he continued, speaking very slowly this time, and with an intensity of feeling, which was quite different to his usual, pleasant, good-tempered, oft-time's flippant manner. mademoiselle crystal if you will allow me to speak of such an insignificant person as i am i am at present in the position of the mouse with regard to your father and yourself the lions of my parable you might so easily have devoured me you see he added with a quaint touch of humor well the time may come when you may have need of a friend just as i had had to be made of a friend just as i had had to be a quaint touch of humor well the time may come when you may have need of a friend just as i had to need of one when I came here, a stranger in a strange land. Events will move with great rapidity in the next few days, Mademoiselle Crystal, and the mouse might at any time be in a position to render a service to the lion. Will you remember that? I will try, Masor, she replied. But already

her pride was once more up in arms. She did not like his tone. that air of protection, which his attitude suggested, and indeed she could not think of any eventuality which would place the Comte de Cambrai de Brestolo in serious need of a tradesman for his friend. Then as quickly again, her mood softened, and as she raised her eyes to his, he saw that they were full of tears. Indeed, indeed, she said gently, I do deserve, your contempt, sir, for my shrewishness and vixenish ways. How can I, how can any of us, afford to turn our backs upon a loyal friend? Today, too, of all days, when that awful enemy is once more at our gates. Oh, she added, clasping her hands together with a sudden gesture of passionate entreaty.

You are English, sir, a friend of all those gallant gentlemen who saved my dear father and his family from those awful revolutionaries. You will be loyal to us, will you not? The English hate Bonaparte as much as we do. You hate him too. Do you not? You will do all you can to help my poor father through this awful crisis. You will, won't you? She pleaded. Have I not already offered you my humble services, mademoiselle? He rejoined earnestly. Indeed, this was a very serious ordeal for quiet, self-contained Bobby Clifford, an Englishman, remember, with all an Englishman's shyness of emotion, all an Englishman's contempt of any display of sentiment. Here was this beautiful girl whom he loved, with all an Englishman's contempt of any display of sentiment. here was this beautiful girl whom he loved with all the passionate ardor of his virile manly temperament,

sitting almost at his feet, he looking down upon her fair head with its wealth of golden curls and into her blue eyes which were full of tears. Who shall blame him if just then a desperate longing seized him to throw all prudence, all dignity and honor to the winds, and to clasp this exquisite woman for one brief and happy moment in his arms, to forget the world, her position and his, to risk disgrace and betray hospitality for the sake of one kiss upon her lips. The temptation was so fierce. Indeed, for one short second, it was all but irresistible, that something of the battle which was raging within his soul became outwardly visible. And in the girl's tear-dimmed eyes, there crept a quick look of alarm.

So strange, so un-understandable was his glance, the rigidity of his attitude, as if every muscle had become taught, and every nerve strained to snapping point. while his face looked hard and lined almost as if he were fighting physical pain. Thus a few seconds went by in absolute silence, while the great guilt clock upon its carved bracket ticked on with stolid relentlessness, marking another minute, and yet another of this hour which was so full of portent for the destinies of France. Clifford would gladly have bartered the future years of his life for the power to stay the hand of time just now, for the power to remain just like this, standing before this beautiful woman whom he loved, feeling that at any moment he could take her in his arms and kiss her eyes and her lips, even if she were unwilling, even if she hated him forever afterwards. the sense of power to do that which he might regret to the end of his days was infinitely sweet.

The power to fight against that all compelling passion was perhaps sweeter still. Then came the pride of victory. The habits of a lifetime had come to his aid, self-respect and self-control, hard and willful taskmasters fought against passion, until it yielded inch by inch. The battle was fought and won in those few moments of silence. The strains of the man's attitude relaxed. The set lines on his face vanished, leaving it serene and quietly humorous, calm and self-deprecatory. Only his voice was not quite so steady as usual, as he said softly. Mademoiselle Crystal, is there anything that I can

do for you. Now, at once, I mean, if there is, I do entreat you most earnestly to let me serve you. Had the pure soul of the woman been touched by the fringe of that magnetic wave of passion, even as it rose to its utmost height, nearly sweeping the man off his feet, and in its final retreat, leaving him with quivering nerves and senses bruised and, numb, did something of the man's suffering of his love and of his despair appear, despite his efforts upon his face and in the depth of his glance, and thus made visible, did they, even through their compelling intensity, cause that invisible barrier of social prejudices to totter and to break? It were difficult to say, certain it is that crystals hold

heart warmed to the stranger as it had never warmed before. She felt that here was a man standing before her now, whose promises would never be mere idle words, whose deeds would speak more loudly than his tongue. She felt that in the midst of all the enmity which encompassed her and her father in their newly regained home and land, here at any rate was a friend on whom they could count to help, to counsel, and to accomplish. And deep down in the very bottom of her soul, there was a curious, unexplainable longing that circumstances should compel her to ask one day for his help, and a sweet knowledge that that help would be ably rendered and pleasing to receive. But for the moment, of course, there was nothing that she could ask. She would be

married in a couple of days. Alas, so soon, and after that, it would be to her husband that she must look for devotion, for guidance, and for sympathy. A little sigh of regret escaped her lips, and she said gently, I thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart. for the words of friendship which you have spoken, I shall never forget them, never, and if at any time in my life I am in trouble, which God forbid, he broke in fervently, if any time I have need of a friend, she resumed, I feel that I should find one in you. Oh, if only I could think that you would extend your devotion to my poor country and to our king. She exclaimed with passionate earnestness, you love your country very dearly, mademoiselle,

he rejoined. I think that I love France more than anything else in the world, she replied, and I feel that there is no sacrifice which I would deem too great to offer up for her. And by France, you mean the Bourbon dynasty? He said almost involuntarily, with an impassive. little sigh. I mean the king, by the grace of God, she retorted proudly. She had thrown back her head with an air of challenge as she said this, meeting his glance eye to eye. She looked strong and willful all of a sudden, no longer girlish and submissive. And to the man who loved her, this trait of power and latent heroism added yet another to the many charms which he saw in her, loyal to her country and to her king. She would be loyal in all things to husband, kindred, and to friends. But he realized

at the same time how impossible it would be for any man to win her love if he were an enemy to her cause. St. Genis, royalist, emigre, retrograde like herself, had obviously won his way to her heart, chiefly by the sympathy of his own convictions. But what of de Marmont, to whom she was on the eve of plighting her troth? De Marmont, the hot-headed Bonapartist who owned but one God, Napoleon, and yet had deliberately, and with his cynical opportunism, hidden his fanatical aims and beliefs from the woman whom he had wooed and won. The thought of that deception and of the awakening which would await the girl-wife on the very morrow of her wedding day mayhap was terribly repellent to Clifford's straightforward, loyal nature, and bitter was the contrarious.

attention within his soul as he found himself at the crossroads of a divided duty. Every instinct of chivalry towards the woman loudly demanded that he should warn her now at once before it was too late, before she had actually pledged her life and future to a man whom her very soul, if she knew the truth, would proclaim a renegade and a traitor. And every instinct of loyalty to the man, that male solidarity of sex, which will never permit one man if he be a gentleman to betray another,

prompted him to hold his peace. Crystal's gentle voice fell like dreamtones upon his ear. Vaguely only did he hear what she said. She was still speaking of France. of all that the country had suffered, and all that was due to her from her sons and daughters. She spoke of the king, God's own anointed, as she called him, endowed with rights divine, and all the while his thoughts were far away, flying on the wings of memory to the little hamlet among the mountains, where two enthusiasts had exhausted every panegyric,

praise of their own hero, whom this girl called a usurper and a brigand. He remembered every trait in De Marmont's face, every inflection of his voice, as he said with almost cruel cynicism. She will learn to love me in time. That Clifford knew now, Crystal de Cambrey, would never do. Indifferent to DeMarmont today, she would hate and loathe him, the day. The day that she discovered how infamously he had deceived her. And to Clifford's passionate temperament, the thought of Crystal's future unhappiness was absolutely intolerable. Here indeed was a battle far more strenuous and difficult of issue than that of a man's will against his passions. Here was a problem far more difficult to solve than any that had assailed Bobby Coole.

Clifford throughout his life. His heart cried out, she must know the truth, she must, today, this minute, while there was yet time. Anon, she will be pledged irrevocably to a man who has lied to her, whom she will curse as a renegade, a traitor, false to his country, false to his king. And the words hovered on his lips, Mademoiselle Crystal, not plight your troth to de Marmont. He is no friend of yours. His people are not your people. His God is not your God, and there is neither blessing nor holiness in a union twixt you and him. But the words remained unspoken because the unwritten code, the bond twixt man and man, tried to still this natural cry of his heart and reason-argued.

that he must hold his peace. His heart rebelled, contending that to remain silent was cowardly, that his first duty was to the woman whom he loved better than his soul, whilst ingrained principles born and bred in the bone of him threw themselves into the conflict, warning him that if he spoke, he would be no better than an informer, meriting the contempt, alike of those whom he wished to help and of the man whom he would betray. It was one sound coming from below which settled the dispute twixt heart and reason, the sound of de Marmont's voice, which, though he was apparently speaking of indifferent matters, had that same triumphant ring in it which Clifford had heard at Notre Dame de Valks this morning.

sound had caused Crystal to give a quick gasp and to clasp her hands against her breast, as she said with a nervous little laugh. Imagine how happy we are to have Massour de Marmont's support in this terrible crisis. His influence in Grenoble and in the whole province is very great. His word in the town itself may incline the whole balance of public feeling on the side of the king. And who knows it may even help to strengthen the loyalty of the troops? Oh, that Corsican brigand little guesses what kind of welcome we in the Dauphine are preparing for him. Her enthusiasm, her trust, her loyalty ended the conflict in Clifford's mind far more effectually than any sober reasoning could have done. He realized in a moment that neither abstract principles

nor his own feelings in the matter were of the slightest account at such a juncture. What was obvious, certain, and not to be shirked was duty to a woman who was on the point of being shamefully deceived. Also, duty to the man, whose husband was a woman. He was on the point of being shamefully deceived. Also, duty to the man, whose hospitality he had enjoyed. To remain silent would be cowardly. Of that, he became absolutely certain. And once Bobby had made up his mind what duty was, no power on earth could make him swerve from its fulfillment. Mademoiselle Crystal, he began slowly and deliberately, just now when I was bold enough to offer you my friendship, you deigned to accept it, did you not? Indeed, I did, sir. She replied a little astonished. Why should you ask? Because the time has come sooner than I expected for me to prove the truth

of that offer to you. There is something which I must say to you, which no one but a friend ought to do. May I? But before she could frame the little yes, which already trembled on her lips, her father's voice, and de Marmont's, rang out from the further end of the room itself. The folding doors had been thrown open. Mouser Lecomte and his son-in-law elect were on the point of entering, and had paused for a moment just under the lintel. de Marmont was talking in a loud voice and apparently in response to something which Monsieur Lecomte had just told him. Ah, he said, Madame La Duchess will be leaving Brestelo? I am sorry to hear that.

Why should she go so soon? An affair of business, my dear de Marmont, replied the Comte, I will tell you about it at an early opportunity. after which there was a hubbub of talk in the corridors outside, the sound of greetings, the pleasing confusion of questions and answers, which marks the simultaneous arrival of several guests, Crystal Rose, and turned to Bobby with a smile. You will have to tell me some other time, she said lightly, don't forget. The psychological moment had gone. gone by, and Clifford cursed himself for having fought too long against the promptings of his heart,

and lost the precious moments, which might have changed the whole of Crystal's future. He cursed himself for not having spoken sooner, now that he saw de Marmont with glowing eyes and ill-conceiled triumph approach his beautiful fiancée, and with the air of a a conqueror raise her hand to his lips. She looked very pale, and to the man who loved her so ardently and so hopelessly, it seemed as if she gave a curious little shiver, and that for one brief second her blue eyes flashed a pathetic look of appeal up to his. M. LaCompt's guests followed closely on the triumphant bridegroom's heels, M. Le Preffat, fussy and nervous,

secretly delighted at the idea of affixing his official signature to such an aristocratic contract de marriage, as was this, between Mademoiselle de Cambrai de Brestolo and Monsieur Victor de Marmont, own nephew to marshal the Duke de Ragus, Madame La Prophet, resplendent in the latest fashion from Paris, the Duke and Duchess de Embron, cousins of the bride, the Vicomte de Genovoix, and his mother, who was abbess of Pont-Hot,

and godmother by proxy, took Crystal de Cambrai, whilst General Marchand in command of the troops of the district, fresh from the Council of War, which he had hastily, convened, was trying to hide behind a debonair manner all the anxiety which the Briggins march on Grenoble was causing him. The chief notabilities of the province had assembled to do honor to the occasion. Later on, others would come lesser lights by birth and position than this select crowd who would partake of the super desfioncals before the contract was signed in their presence as witnesses to the transaction. Everyone was talking volubly. The ogre's progress through France, no longer to be denied, was the chief subject of conversation. Some spoke of it with contempt,

others with terror. The ex-bonapartis, Fourier, and Marshond were loudest in their curses against the usurper. Clifford, silent and keeping somewhat aloof from the brilliant throng, saw that de Marmont did not enter into any of these conversations. He kept resolutely close to Crystal and spoke to her from time to time in a whisper, and always with that assured air of the conqueror, which grated so unpleasantly on Clifford's irritable nerves. The Comte, affable and gracious, spoke a few words to each of his guests in turn, while Madame La Duchess Duer, Dajant, was talking openly of her forthcoming return journey to the north. I came in great haste, she said loudly, to the circle of ladies gathered around her for my little

Crystal's wedding. But I was in the middle of a Lenton retreat at the Sacred Heart, and I only received permission from my confessor to spend three days in all this gaiety. When do you leave us again? Madame La Duchess, queried Mademoiselle Marchand, the general's daughter in a honeyed voice. On Tuesday, directly after the religious ceremony, Mademoiselle, replied Madame, whilst Monsieur Le Prefet tried to look unconcerned, he had brought the money over as Madame Le Duchess had directed. Twenty-five millions of francs in notes and drafts had been transferred from the cellar of the Hotel DeVille to his own. pockets first and then into the keeping of madame. He had driven over from the Hotel de Ville

in his private coach. He himself in an agony of fear every time the road looked lonely or he heard the sound of horses' hooves upon the road behind him, for there might be mounted highwaymen about. Now he felt infinitely relieved. He had shifted all responsibility of that vast sum of money on to more exalted shoulders than his own, and inwardly he was marveling how coolly Madame La Duchess seemed to be taking such an awful responsibility. Now, Hector threw open the great doors and announced that M. M.a. La Comte was served. Through the vast corridor beyond, appeared a vista of liveryed servants in purple and canary, wearing powdered peruk, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. There was a general

hubbub in the room. The men moved towards the ladies who had been assigned to them for partners. M. M. Lecomte, in his grandest manner, approached Madame La Duchess de Embron in order to conduct her down to supper. An air of majestic grandeur of solemnity and splendid decorum pervaded the fine apartment. It sought out every corner of the vast reception room, flickered round every wax candle. It spread itself over the monumental. hearth, the stiff brocade-covered chairs, the gilt consuls, and tall mirrors. It emanated alike from the graciousness of Massaure Lecomte, de Cambre, and the pompousness of his major-domo. Hector, in fact, appeared at this moment as the high priest in a temple of good manners and bontan.

The muscles of his face were rigid. His mouth was set. as if ready to pronounce sacrificial words. In his right hand, he carried a gold-headed wand, emblem of his high office. But suddenly, there was a disturbance, an unseemly noise came from the further end of the corridor, where rose the magnificent staircase. Hector's face became a study in rapidly changing expressions, from pompousness. to astonishment, then horror, and finally wrath, when he realized that an intruder in stained cloth clothes and booted and spurred was actually making his way through the ranks of liveryed and gaping servants, and loudly demanding to speak with Monsieur Lecomte. Such an unseemly disturbance had not occurred

at the Chateau de Brestelo, since Hector had been installed there as Major Domo nearly 12 months ago, and he was on the point of literally throwing himself upon the impious Malapert, who thus dared to thrust his ill-clad person upon the brilliant company, when he paused more aghast than before. In this same impious Malapert, he had recognized M.Sor La Marquis de Saint-Genis. The young man looked to be laboring under terrible excitement. His face was flushed, and he was panting, as if he had been running hard. M. Lecomte, he cried breathlessly, as soon as he caught sight of Hector.

Tell Moseur Lecomte that I must speak. with him at once. But Monsieur Le Marquis, Missor Le Marquis, that was all that poor, bewildered, Hector could stammer. His slowly moving brain was torn between the duties of his position and his respect for M. Le Marquis. And in the struggle, the worthy man was enduring throes of anxiety. Fortunately, M. M. LaComte himself put an end to Hector's dilemma. He had recognized St. Genes's voice. Unlike his major domo, he knew at once that something terribly grave must have happened, else the young man would never have committed such a serious breach of good manners. And Moseer LaCompte himself was never at a loss how to turn to. turn any situation to a dignified and proper issue. He murmured a quick and courteous apology to Madame La Duchess de Embron and a comprehensive one to all his guests. Then he hastened to meet St.

Janus at the door. Already St. Jenice had entered. His rough clothes and muddy boots looked strangely in contrast to the immaculate get-up of the Compt's guests, but of this he hardly seemed to be aware. His face was flushed. With his right hand, he clutched a small writing cane, and his glowering dark eyes swept a rapid glance over everyone in the room. And to the Compt, he said hoarsely, I must offer you my humblest apologies, my dear Comte, for obtruding my very untidy person upon you at this hour. I have walked all the way from Grenoble as I could not get a hackney coach, else I had been here earlier and spared you this unpleasantness. You are always welcome in this house, my good Maurice, said the Comte, in his

loftiest manner, and at any hour of the day. And he added with a certain tone of dignified reproach. I did ask you to be my guest tonight, if you remember. And I, said St. Genis, was churlish enough to refuse. I would not have come now, only that I felt I might be in time to avert the most awful catastrophe that has yet fallen upon your house. Again, his restless, dark eyes, sullen and wrathful, and charged with a look of rage and of Kate wandered over the assembled company. The look frightened the ladies. They took to clinging to one another, standing in compact little groups together, like frightened birds, watchful and wide-eyed. They feared that the young man was mad, but the man exchanged significant glances and

significant smiles. They merely thought that St. Jenis had been drinking, or that jealousy had half turned his brain. Only Clifford, who stood somewhat apart from the others, knew by some unexplainable intuition what it was that had brought Maurice de St. Jenis to this house in this excited state and at this hour. He felt excited too and mightily thankful that the catastrophe would be brought about by others, not by himself. But all his thoughts were for Crystal and an instinctive desire to stand by her and to shield her, if necessary, from some unknown or unguessed evil, made him draw nearer to her. She stood on the fringe of the little crowd as isolated as Bobby was himself. De Marmont, whose face had become the color of dead ashes, had left her side.

One step at a time, and very slowly, he was getting nearer and nearer to St. Genis, as if the latter's wrath-filled eyes were drawing him against his will. At the young man's ominous words, Monsieur Lecomte's sunken cheeks grew a shade more pale. catastrophe, Mondieu, he exclaimed, could fall on my house that would be worse than 20 years of exile. An alliance with a traitor, Massaure Lecomte, said St. Genes firmly. A gasp went round the room, a sigh, a cry. The women looked in mute horror from one man to the other. The men already had their right hand on their swords, but Clifford's eyes were fixed upon crystal, who pale, silent, rigid as a marble statue, with lips parted,

and nostrils quivering, stood not five paces away from him, her dilated eyes, wandering, from the face of St. Genes to that of de Marmont, and thence to that of her father. But beyond that look of tense excitement, she revealed nothing of what she thought and felt. Already de Marmot, his hand upon his sword, had advanced menacingly towards St. Genis. Masor Lamarcki, he said, between set teeth, you will, by God, eat those words, or eat my words, man, retorted St. Genis, with a harsh laugh. By heaven, have I not come here?

on purpose to throw my words into your lying face. There was a brief but violent skirmish, for de Marmont had made a movement as if he meant to spring at his rival's throat, and General Marchand and the vicomte de Genovoix, who happened to be near, had much ado to seize and hold him. Even so they could not stop, the horse cries which he uttered, liar, liar, liar, let me go, let me get to him. I must kill him. I must kill him. The Compt interposed his dignified person between the two men. Maris, he said in tones of calm and dispassionate reproof, your conduct is absolutely unjustifiable. You seem to forget that you are in the presence of ladies and of my guests. If you had a quarrel with Monsieur de Marmont,

a quarrel, my dear Comte, exclaimed St. Genis, nay, tis no quarrel I have with him, and my conduct would have been a thousand times more vile if I had not come tonight, and stopped his hand from touching that of Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambrai, his hand, which was engaged less than two hours ago in affixing to the public buildings of Grenoble the infamous message of the Corsican brigand to the army and the people of France. A hoarse murmur, a sure sign that men or women are afraid, came from every corner of the room. The message? What message? Some people turned instinctively to Monsieur Le Prefet, others to General Marchand. Everyone knew that Bonaparte had landed on the literal. Everyone had heard the rumor that he was marching in triumph

through province and the Dauphine. But no one had altogether believed this as for a message, a proclamation, a call to the army, and this in Grenoble itself. No one had heard. No one had heard of that, everyone had been at home, getting dressed for this festive function, thinking of good suppers and of wedding bells. It was as if, after a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning, the house was found to be in flames. M. Le Prefitt, in answer to these mute queries, had shrugged his shoulders, and General Marchand looked grim and silent. But St. Jeanne, with arm uplifted and shaking hand, pointed a finger at De Marmont. Ask him, he cried, ask him, my dear comte. Ask the miserable traitor, who with lies and damnable treachery,

has stolen his way into your house, has stolen your regard, your hospitality, and was on the point of stealing your most precious treasure, your daughter. Ask him, he knows every word of that infamous message by heart. I doubt not, but a copy of it is inside his coat now. Ask him, General Muton Duverett, met him outside Grenoble in company with that Kerr, Emory, and I saw him with my own eyes distributing these hellish papers among our townspeople and pinning them up at the street corners of our city. While St. Genis, was speaking, or rather screaming, for his voice, pitched high, seemed to fill the entire room. Every glance was fixed upon de Marmont. Everyone, of course, expected a contradiction,

as hot and intemperate as was the accusation. It was unthinkable, impossible, that what St. Genes said could be true. They all knew de Marmont well, nephew of the Duke de Rago. who had borne the lion's share in surrendering Paris to the Allies and bringing about the downfall of the Corsican usurper. He was one of the most trusted members of the royalist set in Dauphine. They had talked quite freely before him, consulted with him when local Bonapartism appeared uncomfortably rampant. De Marmont was one of themselves,

And yet he said nothing even now when St. Genes accused him and hurled insult upon insult at him. He said nothing to refute the awful impeachment to justify his conduct, to explain his companionship with Emery. His face was still livid, but it was with rage, not indignation. Marchand and Genovoix, still held him by the arm. else he and St. Janus would have been at one another's throat before now, but his gestures as he struggled to free himself, the imprecations which he uttered were those of a man who was baffled and found out, not of one who is innocent. But as St. Janus continued to speak and worked himself up every moment into a still greater state of excitement,

De Marmont gradually seemed to calm down. He ceased to curse. He ceased to struggle, and on his face, which still was livid, there gradually crept a look of determination and of defiance. He dug his teeth into his under lip until tiny drops of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and trickled slowly down his chin. Marchand and Genovoix relaxed the grip upon his arms, since he no longer fought, and thus released, he contrived to pull himself together. He tossed back his head and looked his infuriated accuser boldly in the face. By the time St. Jena's paused in his impassioned denunciation, he had himself completely under control. Only his eyes appeared to glow with an unnatural fire, and little beads of moisture appeared upon his brow and matted the dark hair against his forehead.

The Comte de Cambrai at this juncture would certainly have interposed with one of those temperate speeches, full of dignity and brimming over with lofty sentiments, which he knew so well how to deliver. But de Marmont gave him no time to begin. When St. Genes paused for breath, he suddenly freed himself completely with a quick movement from Marchand's and Genovois' hold, and then he turned to the Comte and to the rest of the company. And what if I did pin the emperor's proclamation on the walls of Grenoble? He said proudly, and with a tremor of enthusiasm in his voice, the emperor whom treachery more vile than any since the days of the Ascariot sent into

humiliation and exile. The emperor has come back, cried the young devotee, with that extraordinary fervor, which Napoleon alone, of all men that have ever walked upon this earth, was able to sussitate. His imperial eagles once more soar over France, carrying on their wings her honor and glory to the outermost corners of Europe. His proclamation is to his people who have always loved him, to his soldiers who in their hearts have always been true to him. His proclamation, he added, as with a kind of exultant war cry, he drew a roll of paper from his pocket and held it out at arm's length above his head. His proclamation, here it is, Viva la Emperor,

by the grace of God. Who shall attempt to describe the feelings of all those who were assembled round this young enthusiast as he hurled his challenge right in the face of those who called him a liar and a traitor. Surely it were a hard task for the chronicler to search into the minds and hearts of this score of men and women who worshipped one God and reverenced one king. At the moment when they saw that king threatened upon his throne, their face. mocked and their God blasphemed, that the young man spoke words of truth, no one thought of denying. Napoleon's name had the power to strike terror in the heart of every citizen who desired peace above all things, and of every royalist who wished to see King Louis in possession of the throne

of his fathers. But the army which had fought under him, the army which he had led in triumph and to victory from one end of the continent of Europe to the other, that army still loved him and had never been rightly loyal to King Louis. The horrors of war which had lain so heavily over France and over Europe for the past 20 years were painfully vivid still. in everybody's mind, and all these horrors were intimately associated with the name which stood out now in bold characters on the paper which de Marmont was triumphantly waving. M. LaCompte had become a shade or two paler than he had been before. He looked very old, very careworn all of a sudden, and his pale eyes had that look in them, which comes into the eyes of the old after years of sorrow

and of regret. But never for a moment did he depart from his attitude of dignity. When de Marmont's exultant cry of Viva la Emperor had ceased to echo round the majestic walls of this stately chateau, he straightened out his spare figure, and with one fine gesture, begged for silence from his guests. Then he said very quietly, M. Marmant, this is neither the place nor the opportunity, which I should have chosen for confronting you with all the lies, which you have told in the past ten months, ever since you entered my house as an honored guest. But Moseur de St. Genis has left me. no option. Burning with indignation at your treachery, he came hot foot to unmask you. Before my daughter's fair hand had affixed her own honorable name beneath that of a cheat and a traitor. Yes,

M. DeMarmont, he reiterated with virile force, breaking in on the hot protests which had risen to the young man's lips. No one but a cheat and a traitor. could thus have warmed himself into the confidence of an old man and of a young girl. No one but a villainous Blackguard could have contemplated the abominable deceptions which you have planned against me and against my daughter. For a moment or two after the old man had finished speaking, Victor de Marmont remained silent. There were murmurs of indignation among the children.

guess, also of approval of the Compt's energetic words. De Marmont was in the midst of a hostile crowd, and he knew it. Here was no drawing-room quarrel, which could be settled at the point of a sword. Though as fate and man so oft ordain it, a woman was the primary reason for the quarrel. She was not its cause. And the hostility expressed against him, by every glance which de Marmont encountered was so general and so great that it overawed him, even in the myths of his enthusiasm. M. Lecomte, he said at last, and he made a great effort to appear indifferent and unconcerned. I wish for your daughter's sake that Monsieur de Saint-Gentis had chosen some other time to make this fracas. We who have,

have learned chivalry at the emperor's school would have hit our enemy when he was in a position to defend himself. This, obviously, I cannot do at this moment without trespassing still further upon your hospitality and causing Mademoiselle Crystal still more pain. I might even make a direct appeal to her, since the decision in this matter rests, I imagine, primarily with her, but with the emperor at our gates, with the influence of his power and of his pride dominating my every thought, I will, with your gracious permission, relieve you of my unwelcome presence without taking another leaf out of Massor de Genis's book. As you will, Massor, said the Comte stiffly. De Marmont bowed quite ceremoniously to him, and the Comte, courtly,

and correct to the last, returned his salute with equal ceremony. Then the young man turned to Crystal. For the first time, perhaps, since the terrible frockas had begun, he realized what it all must mean to her. She did not try to evade his look or to turn away from him.

On the contrary, she looked him straight in the face and watched him while he approached her without retreating one single step. But she watched him just as one would watch an abject and revolting cur that was too vile and too mean even to merit a kick. Crystal's blue eyes were always expressive, but they had never been so expressive as they were just then. De Marmont met her glance squarely, and he read in it everything that she meant to convey. her contempt, her loathing, her hatred, but above all her contempt. So overwhelming, so complete was this contempt that it made him wince as if he had been struck in the face with a whip. He stood still,

for he knew that she would never allow him to kiss her hand in farewell, and he had had enough of insults. He knew that he could not bear that finally. one. A red mist suddenly gathered before his eyes, a mad desire to strike, to wound or to kill, and with it a wave of passion. He called it love for this woman, such as he had never felt for her before. He gave her back with a glance, hatred for hatred, but whereas her hatred for him was smothered in contempt. His, for her, was leavened with a fierce and dominant passion. All this had taken but a few seconds in accomplishment. M. Lecomte had not done more than give a sign to Hector to see M. DeMarmont safely out of the castle, and Maurice de St. Genis had only had time

to think of interposing. If de Marmont tried to take to take it, take Crystal's hand. Only a few seconds, but a lifetime of emotion was crammed into them. Then de Marmont, with Crystal's look of loathing, still eating into his soul, caught sight of Clifford, who stood close by. Clifford, whose one thought throughout all this unhappy scene had been of Crystal, who, through it all, had eyes and ears only for her. Some kind of instinct made the young girl look up to him just then, probably only in response to a wave of memory, which brought back to her at that very moment, the words of devotion and offer of service which he had spoken a while ago, or it may have been that same sense which had told her at the time that here was a

man whom she could always trust, that he would always prove a friend as he had been promised, and the look which she gave him was one of simple confidence. But de Marmont just happened to intercept that look. He had never been jealous of Clifford, of course. Clifford, the foreigner, the bourgeois tradesman, never could under any circumstances be a rival to reckon with. At any other time, he would have laughed at the idea of Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambrai bestowing the slightest favor upon the Englishman. But within the last few seconds, everything had become different. Victor de Marmont, the triumphant and wealthy suitor of Mademoiselle de Cambrai, had become a pariah among all these ladies and gentlemen, and he had become a man scorned by the woman whom he had

wooed and thought to win so easily. The fierce love engendered for Crystal, in his turbulent heart by all the hatred and all the scorn which she lavished upon him, brought an unreasoning jealousy into being. He felt suddenly that he detested Clifford. He remembered Clifford's nationality, and it's avowed hatred of the hero whom he, de Marmont, worshipped, and he realized also that that same hatred must of necessity be abolished. between the Englishman and Crystal the Cambrai. Therefore, though this new untamed jealousy seized hold of him with extraordinary power,

though it brought that ominous red film before his eyes, which makes a man strike out blindly and stupidly against his rival, it also suggested to de Marmont a far simpler and far more efficacious way of ridding himself, once for all of any fear of rivalry from Clifford. When he had bowed quite formally to Crystal, he looked up at Bobby and gave him a pleasant and friendly nod. I suppose you will be coming with me, my good Clifford, he said lightly. We are rowing in the same boat, you and I. We were a very happy party, were we not? You and Emery and I, when General Muton,

met us outside Grenoble, for we had just heard the glorious news that the emperor is marching triumphantly through France. Then he turned once more to St. Genes. Did not, he said, the generals aid de Camp, tell you that? M. de Saint-Genis had, during these few seconds, while de Marmont held the center of the stage, succeeded in controlling his excitement. At any rate, outwardly. He was so absolutely master of the situation and had put his successful rival so completely to rout that the sense of satisfaction helped to soothe his nerves, and when De Marmont spoke directly to him, he was able to reply with comparative calm. Had you, he said to De Marmont attempted to deny the accusation, which I have brought against you, I was ready to

confront you with the report which General Mouton's aide-de-camp brought into the town. I had no intention of denying my loyalty to the Emperor, rejoined de Marmont, but I would like to know what report General Mouton's aide-de-camp brought into Grenoble. The worthy general did not belie his name, I assure you. He looked mightily scared when he recognized Emery. He was a with his aide-de-camp and in his coach, retorted St. Janice, whilst that traitor, Emery, you and your friend, Mr. Clifford, were on horseback. You gave him the slip easily enough. That's true, of course, said de Marmont simply. Well, shall we go, my dear Clifford? He had accomplished the purpose of his jealousy even more effectually than he could have wished. He looked round and saw

that everyone had thrown a casual glance of contempt upon Clifford and then turned away to murmur with scornful indifference. I always mistrusted that man. Or the Comte ought never to have had the fellow in the house, while the words English spy and informer were on every lip. But Clifford had made no movement during this brief colloquy. He saw, just as de Marmont did, that everyone was listening more with indifference than with horror. He, the stranger, was of so little consequence after all, a tradesman and an Englishman. What mattered what his political convictions were? De Marmont was an object of hatred, but he, Clifford, was only one of contempt. He heard the muttered words, English spy, informer, and others of still more overworked.

disdain. But he cared little what these people said. He knew that they would never trouble to hear any justification from himself. They would not worry their heads about him a moment longer once he had left the house in company with De Marmont. He was not quite sure either whether De Marmont's spite had been directed against himself personally, or that it was merely the outcome. of his present humiliating position. M. La Comte had not bestowed more than a glance upon him, and that from under haughtily raised brows and across half the width of the room. But Crystal had looked up to him and was still looking, and it was that look which had driven all the blood from Clifford's face and caused his lips to set closely, as if with a sense of physical

pain. The insults which her father's guess were overtly murmuring. She had in her mind, and her eyes were conveying them to him far more plainly than her lips could have done. English spy, traitor to friendship and to trust, liar, deceiver, hypocrite. That and more did her scornful glance imply, but she said nothing. He tried to plead with eyes as expressive as were her own, and she merely turned away from him, just as if he no longer existed. She drew her skirt closer round her, and somehow, with that gesture, she seemed to sweep him entirely out of her existence. Even Madame La Duchess had not one glance for him. To these passionate, hot-headed, impulsive royalists, and adherent of the Corsican ogreux,

was lower than the scum of the earth. They loathed de Marmont because he had been one of themselves. He was a traitor, and not one man there but would have liked to see him put up against a wall and summarily shot. But the stranger they wiped out of their lives. Was there any chance for Clifford if he tried to defend himself? None of a certainty. He could not call the accusation a lie, since he had been in the company of Emery and of de Marmont most of the day, and mere explanations would have fallen on deaf and unwilling ears. Clifford knew this, nor did he attempt any explanation. There is a certain pride in the heart of every English gentleman, which in moments of acute crisis rises to its full power and height. That pride would not allow Clifford to utter a single word

in his own defense. The futility of attempting it also influenced his decision. He scorned the idea of speaking on his own behalf, words which were doomed to be disbelieved. In a moment, he had found himself absolutely isolated in the center of the room, not far from. the hearth where he had stood a little while ago talking to Crystal, and close to the chair where she had sat with the light of the fire playing upon her satin gown. The cushions still bore the impress of her young figure as she had leaned up against them. The sight of it was an additional pain which almost made Clifford wince. He bowed silently and very low to Crystal and to Madame La Duchess, and then to all the ladies and gentlemen who cold-shouldered him

with such contemptuous ostentation. De Marmont, with head erect, and an air of swagger, was already waiting for him at the door. Clifford, in taking leave of M. Lecomte, made a violent effort to say, at any rate, the one word which weighed upon his heart, Will you at least permit me, M. Sour Lecomte? He said to thank you for, but already the Compt had interrupted him, even before the words were clearly out of his mouth.

I will not permit you, sir, he broke in firmly, to speak a single word other than a plain denial of Moseur de St. Genesis' accusations against you. Then as Clifford relapsed into silence, M. M. La Comte continued with haughty, peremptoriness. A plain yes or no will suffice, sir, were you or were you not in the company of those traders, Emery and de Marmont, when General Mouton, Duvernette had come upon them outside Grenoble. I was, replied Clifford simply. With a stiff nod of the head, the Compt turned his back abruptly upon him. No one took any further notice of the English spy. The accused had been condemned without inquiry and without trial. In times like these, all one's friends must be above suspicion. Clifford knew that

there was nothing to be said. With a quickly suppressed sigh, he too turned away, and in his habitual English dogged way, he resolutely set his teeth, and with a firm, soldierly step walked quietly out of the room. Hector, see that Monsieur de Marmont's coach is ready for him, said Monsieur Lecomte, with well-assumed indifference, and that supper is no longer delayed. He then, once more, offered his arm to Madame La Duchess de Embrun. Madame La Duchess, he said in his most courtly manner, I beg that you will accept my apologies for this unforeseen interruption. May I have the honor of conducting you to supper. End of Chapter 3, Part 2. Chapter 4, Part 1 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey.

This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. DeMarmont, having successfully shot his poisoned arrow, and brought down his enemy, had no longer any ill feeling against Clifford. His jealousy had been short-lived. It was set at rest by the brief episode, which had culminated in the Englishman's final exit from the castle of Brestolo. Not a single detail of that moving little episode had escaped de Marmont's keen eyes. He had seen, crystal's look of positive abhorrence, wherewith she had regarded Clifford. He had seen the gathering up of her skirts away, as it were, from the contaminating propinquity of the English spy,

and de Marmont was satisfied. He was perfectly ready to pick up the strained strands of friendship with the Englishman, and affected not to notice the latter's absorption, and moodiness. Can I drive you into Grenoble, my good Clifford? He asked airily as he paused on the top of the parent steps waiting for the Hackney coach. I thank you, replied Clifford. I prefer to walk. It is eight kilometers and a pitch dark night. I know my way. I thank you. Just as you like. He paused a moment and began humming the Marsearch. say. Clifford started walking down the monumental steps. Well, I'll say good night, De Marmont, he said coldly and goodbye, too. You are not going away, queried the other,

as soon as I get the means of going. Troops will be on the move all over the country soon. Foreigners will be interned. You will have some difficulty in getting away. I know that. That's why I want to make arrangements as early as possible. Where will you stay in the meanwhile? Possibly at the Tu'I da Fines if I can get a room. I shall see you again then. The emperor will stay there while he is in Grenoble. Well, good night, my dear friend, said de Marmont,

as he extended a cordial hand to Clifford, who in the dark evidently failed to see it. And don't take the insults of all these fools too much to heart, and he gave an expressive nod in the direction of the stately castle behind him. They are dults, he continued eerily. If they possessed a grain of sense, they would have kept on friendly terms with me. As that old fool's son-in-law, I could have saved him from all the reprisals, which will inevitably fall on all these royalist traitors, now that the emperor has come into his own again.

Clifford was halfway down the stone steps when these words of de Marmont struck upon his ear. Instinctively, he retraced his steps. there was a suggestion of impending danger to Crystal in what the young man had said. What do you mean by talking about reprisals? He asked, Oh, only the inevitable, replied de Marmont. The people of the Dauphine never cared for these royalists, you know, and didn't learn to like them any better in these past 11 months since the restoration. M. M. La Comte de Cambrai has been very high and mighty since his return from exile. He may yet come to wish that he had never quitted the comfortable little provincial town in England where he gave drawing lessons and French lessons to some very bourgeois boys. But here's that coach at last.

he continued with that jaunty air, which he had assumed since turning his back upon the reception halls of Brestolo. Are you sure that you would rather walk than drive with me? No, replied Clifford abruptly. I am not sure. Thank you very much. I think that if you don't object to my somewhat morose company, I would like a lift as far as Grenoble. He wanted to make de Marmont talk to hear what the young man had to say. From it, he thought that he could learn more accurately what danger would threaten Brestelo in the event of Napoleon's successful march to Paris. That the great adventurer's triumph would be short-lived, Clifford was perfectly sure. He knew the temper of England and believed in the military. genius of Wellington. England would never tolerate for a moment longer than she could help that the firebrand of Europe should once more sit upon the throne of France. And unless the Allies had greatly altered their policy in the past ten months and refused England the necessary support, Wellington

would be more than a match for the decimated army of Bonoenance. apart, but a few weeks, months perhaps, might elapse before Napoleon was once again put entirely out of action, and this time more completely and more effectually than with a small kingdom, wherein to dream again of European conquests. During those weeks and months, Brestolo and its inhabitants would be at the mercy of the man from Corsica, the island. The island, of unrest and of never-sleeping vendetta. De Marmont was ready enough to talk. He knew nothing, of course, of Napoleon's plans and ideas, save what Emery had told him. But what he lacked in knowledge, he more than made up in imagination. Excitement, too, had made him voluble. He talked

freely and incessantly. The emperor would do this. The Emperor will never tolerate that, was all the time on his lips. He bragged and he swaggered, launched into passionate eulogies of the Emperor and fiery denunciations of his enemies. Berthier, Clark, Fuchre, de Marmont, they all deserved death. Nay alone was to be pardoned, for Ney was a fine soldier, always supposing that Ney was. repent. But men like the Comte de Cambrai were a pest in any country, mischief-making and intriguing. Bah, the emperor will never tolerate them. Suddenly, Clifford, who had become half drowsy, lulled to somnolence by de Marmont's incessant chatter and the monotonous jog-trot of the horses,

woke to complete consciousness. He pricked his ears, and in a moment was all attention. They think that they can deceive me, de Marmont was saying airily. They think that I am as great a fool as they are with their talk of Madame Loduchess's Journey North directly after the wedding. Bah, any dolt can put two and two together. The Comte, tells me in one breath that he had a visit from Fourier in the afternoon, and that the Duchess, who only arrived in Brestelo yesterday, would leave again for Paris on the day after tomorrow. And he tells it me with a mysterious air, and adds a knowing wink and a promise that he would explain himself more fully later on. I could have laughed if it were not.

all so miserably stupid. He paused for want of breath and tried to peer through the window of the coach. It is pitch dark, he said, but we can't be very far from the city now. I don't see, rejoined Clifford, ostentatiously smothering a yawn, what Massor La Prefitt's visit to Brestolo had to do with the Duchess's journey to the north. You have got in trouble. In terms, on the brain, my good de Marmont. And with well-fained indifference, he settled himself more cozily into the dark corner of the carriage. De Marmont laughed. What Fourier's afternoon visit has to do with Madame de Adjohn's journey, he retorted, I'll tell you, my good Clifford, Forier went to see Massor Lecomte to Cambrai this afternoon, because he is a paltun.

He is terrified at the thought that the unfortunate Empress's money and treasure are still lying in the cellars of the Hotel de Ville, and he went out to Brestolo in order to consult with the comte what had best be done with the money. I didn't know the ex-emprice's money was lying in the cellar of the Hotel DeVille, remarked Clifford with well-assumed indifference, nor did I, until Emery told me, rejoined de Marmont. The money is there, though, stolen from the Empress Marie-Louise by that arch in Trigger, Talleyrand, 25 millions in notes and drafts. The emperor reckons on it for current expenses until he has reached Paris and taken over the treasury. Even then I don't see what Madame La Duchess de adjun has to do with it. You don't, said de Marmont dryly, but I did in a moment. Forier wouldn't

keep the money at the Hotel de Ville. The Comte de Cambre would not allow it to be deposited in his house. They both want the bourbon to have it. So in order to lull suspicion, they have decided that Madame La Duchess shall take the money to Paris. Well, perhaps, said Clifford with a yawn, but are we not in Grenoble yet? Once more he lapsed into silence, closed his eyes, and to all intents and purposes fell asleep, for never another word did De Marmont get out of him until Grenoble was reached and the Rue Montaurs. Here de Marmont had his lodgings, three doors from the hotel Des Troues. Dauphine's, where fortunately Clifford managed to secure a comfortable room for himself.

He parted quite amicably from de Marmont, promising to call in upon him in the morning. It would be foolish to quarrel with that young windbag now. He knew some things and talked of a great many more. Preparations against the arrival of the Corsican ogre were proceeding apaceous. General Marshaun had been overconfident throughout the day, which was the 5th of March. The troops, he said, were loyal to a man. They were coming in fast from Chamboree and Vienne. The garrison would and could repulse that band of pirates

and take upon itself to fulfill the promise which nay had made to the king, namely to bring the ogre to his majesty bound and gagged in an iron cage. But the following day, which was the sixth, many things occurred to shake the commandant's confidence. Napoleon's proclamation was not only posted up all over the town, but the citizens were distributing the printed leaflets among themselves. One of the officers on the staff pointed out to General Marchand that the fourth regiment of artillery quartered in Grenoble was the one in which Bonaparte had served as a lieutenant during the revolution. The men, it was argued, would never turn their arms against one whom they had never ceased to idolize. It would not be safe to march out

into the open with men whose loyalty was so very doubtful. There was a room. There was a room were current in the town that when the men of the fifth regiment of engineers and the fourth of artillery were told that Napoleon had only 1,100 men with him, they all murmured with one accord, and what about us? Therefore, General Marchand, taking all these facts into consideration, made up his mind to await the ogre inside the walls of Grenoble. Here, at any, rate, defections and desertions would be less likely to occur than in the field. He set to work to organize the city into a state of defense. 47 guns were put in position upon the ramparts, which dominate the road to the south, and he sent a company of engineers and a battalion of

infantry to blow up the bridge of Pontot at Lemur. The royalist's in the city, who were beginning to feel very anxious, had assembled in force to cheer these troops as they marched out of the city. But the attitude of the suppos created a very unpleasant impression. They marched out in disorder. Some of them tore the white cockade from their sheikos, and one or two cries of Viva la Emperor were distinctly heard in their ranks. At Lamour, M. M. Mareerre argued very strongly against the destruction of the bridge of Pont Haute. It would be absurd, he said, to blow up a valuable bridge, since not one kilometer away, there was an excellent ford, across which Napoleon could march his troops with perfect ease.

The Sapphors murmured an assent, and their officer, Colonel Delisart, feeling the temper of his men, did not dare insist. He quartered them at Lamor to await the arrival of the infantry and further orders from General Marchand. When the fifth regiment of infantry was reported to have reached Lafrey, Delisart had the Zappers out and marched out. to meet them, although it was then close upon midnight. While Delisart and his troops encamped at Lafrey, Cambron, who was in command of Napoleon's vanguard, himself occupied Lamur. This was on the seventh. The mayor, who had so strongly protested against the destruction of the bridge of Pont-Hot, gathered the population around him, and in a body, men, women, and children, and children, children marched out of the borough along the Corps' Cisteron Road in order to give the Emperor a rousing welcome. It was still early morning. Napoleon at the head of his old guard entered Lamur. A veritable ovation greeted him. Everyone pressed round him to see him or touch his horse, his coat,

his stirrups. He spoke to the people and held the mayor and munitions. officials in long conversation. Just as practically everywhere else on his route, he had won over every heart. But his small column, which had been 1100 strong when he landed at Jeanne, was still only 1,100 strong. He had only rallied four recruits to his standard. True, he had met with no opposition. True that the peasantry of the Dauphine had loudly acclaimed him, had listened to his harangues, and presented him with flowers, but he had not had a single encounter with any garrison on his way, nor could he boast of any defections in his favor. Now he was nearing Grenoble, Grenoble, which was strongly fortified and well garrisoned, and Grenoble would be the winning

or losing cast of this great gamble for the sovereignty of France. It was close on 11 when the great adventurer set out upon this momentous stage of his journey, the Polish Lancers leading, then the chasseurs of his old guard, with their time-worn gray coats and heavy. heavy bearskins. Some of them were on foot. Others packed closely together in wagons and carts, which the enthusiastic agriculturalists of Lamur had placed at the disposal of the emperor. Napoleon himself followed in his coach, his horse being led along. Amethundering cries of Godspeed, the small column started on its way. As for the rest, tis in the domain of history. Every phase of it has been put on record. Delisart, worried in his mind that he had not been able

to obey General Marchand's orders and destroyed the bridge of Pont Haute, his desire to communicate once more with the general. His decision to await further orders, and in the meanwhile, to occupy the narrow defile of Lefrey as being an advantageous position wherein to oppose the advance of the ogre. All this on the one side. On the other, the advance of the Polish lancers, of the carts and wagons, wherein are crowded the soldiers of the old guard, and Napoleon himself, the great gambler, sitting in his coach, gazing out through the open windows at the fair land of France, the peaceful valley on his left, the chain of ice-covered lakes, and the turbulent drak, on his right beyond the hills, frowning, talefer, snow-capped, and pine-clad,

and far ahead Grenoble still hidden from his view, as the future too was still hidden, the mysterious gate beyond which lay glory and an empire, or the ignominium of irretrievable failure. History has made a record of it all, and it is not the purpose of this true chronicle to do more than recall with utmost brevity, the chief incident of that memorable encounter, the Polish Lancers galloping back with the report that the narrow pass was held against them in strong force, the old guard climbing helter-skelter out of carts and wagons, examining their arms, making ready, Napoleon stepping quickly out of his coach and mounting his charger. On the other side, Delis Sart holding hurried consultation with the Vicomte de St. Genus, whom General Marchand has dispatched to him

with orders to shoot the brigand and his horde as he would a pack of wolves. Napoleon is easily recognizable in the distance with his gray overcoat, his white horse, and his bicorn hat. Presently, he dismounts and walks up and down across the narrow road, evidently in a state of great mental agitation. Delisart's men are sullen and silent. A crowd of men and women from Grenoble have followed them up thus far. They work their way in and out among the infantrymen. They have printed leaflets in their hands,

which they cram one by one into the hands or pockets of the soldiers, copies of Napoleon's proclamation. Now an officer of the old guard is seen to ride up the pass. Delisart recognizes him. They were brothers in arms two years ago and served together under the greatest military genius the world has ever known. Napoleon has sent the man on as an emissary, but Delisart will not allow him to speak. I mean to do my duty, he declares, but in his voice, too,

there has already crept that note of sullenness, which characterized the suppors from the first. Then Captain Raoul, own aide-de-camp to Napoleon, comes up at full gallop, nor does he draw rain till he is up with the entire front of Delisart's battalion. Your emperor is coming. He shouts to the soldiers, if you fire, the first shot will reach him, and France will make you answerable for this outrage. While he shouts and harangues, the men are still sullen and silent, and in the distance the lances of the Polish cavalry gleam in the sun, and the shaggy bearskins of the old guard are seen to move forward up the pass.

Della Sart casts a rapid piercing glance over his men. Sullenness had given plays. to obvious terror. Right about turn, quick march, he commands. Resistance obviously would be useless with these men who are on the verge of laying down their arms. He forces on a quick march, but the Polish lancers are already gaining ground. The sound of their horses' hooves, stamping the frozen ground, the snorting, the clanging of arms is distinctly heard. Delisart now has no option. He must make his men turn once more and face the ogre and his battalion before they are attacked in the rear. As soon as the order is given and the two little armies stand face to

face, the Polish Lancers halt and the old guard stand still. And it almost seems for the moment as if nature herself stood still and listened and looked on. The genial midday sun is slowly melting the snow on pine trees and rocks. One by one, the glistening tiny crystals blink and vanish under the warmth of the kiss. The hard white road darkens under the thaw, and slowly a thin covering of water spreads over the icy crust of the lakes. Napoleon tells Colonel Mallet to order the men to lower their arms. Mallet protests, but Napoleon reiterates the command, more peremptorily this time, and Mallet must obey. Then at the head of his old chasseurs, thus practically disarmed, the emperor, and he is every inch an emperor now, walks straight up to Delisart's opposing troops.

headed St. Jenna's cries, here he is, fire in heaven's name. But the suppores, the old regiment in which Napoleon had served as a young lieutenant in those glorious olden days, are now as pale as death. Their knees shake under them. Their arms tremble in their hands. At ten paces away from the foremost ranks, Napoleon halts. Soldiers, he cries loudly, here I am, your emperor, do you know me? Again, he advances, and with a calm gesture, throws open his will-worn gray, red-and-goat. Fire, cries St. Janus, in mad exasperation. Fire commands Delisart in a voice rendered shaky, with overmastering emotion. Silence reigns, Napoleon still advances step by step, his redding-goat thrown open, his broad chest,

challenging the first bullet which would dare to end the bold, adventurous, daring life. Is there one of you soldiers here who wants to shoot his emperor? If there is, here I am, fire. Which of these soldiers who have served under him at Jenna and Austerlitz? could resist such a call. His voice has lost nothing yet of its charm. His personality, nothing of its magic. Ambitious, ruthless, selfish he may be, but to the army, a friend, a comrade, as well as a god. Suddenly the silence is broken. Shouts of Viva la Emperor rend the air. They echo down the narrow valley, re-echo from his. He echo from

hill to hill and reverberate upon the pine-clad heights of tallifer. Broken are the ranks. White cockades fly in every direction. Tricolors appear in their hundreds everywhere. Shakos are waved on the points of the bayonets, and always, always that cry, Viva la Emperor. Sippurs and infantrymen crowd around the little man in the worn gray redding coat, and he, with that rough familiarity, which bound all soldiers' hearts to him, seizes an old sergeant by the ends of his long mustache. So, you old dog, he says, you were going to shoot your emperor, were you? Not me, replies the man with a growl. Look at our guns. Not one of them was loaded. Delisart in despair, yet shaking. to the heart. His eyes swimming in tears offers his sword to Napoleon, whereupon the emperor

grasps his hand in friendship and comforts him with a few inspiring words. Only St. Genis has looked on all this scene with horror and contempt. His royalist opinions are well known. His urgent appeal to Delisart a while ago to shoot the brigand and his hordes still rings in every soldier's ear. He is half crazy with rage, and there is quite an element of terror in the confused thoughts which crowd in upon his brain. Already these supports and infantrymen have joined the ranks of the old guard, and Napoleon, with that inimitable verb. and inspiring eloquence of which he was past master was haranguing his troops. Just then, three horsemen dressed in the uniform of officers of the National Guard, and wearing enormous tricolour cockades, as large as soup plates on their shakos,

are seen to arrive at a break-neck gallop down the pass from Grenoble. St. Jenis recognized them at a glance. They were Victor de Marmont, surgeon Captain Emery, and their friend, the glovemaker, Dumolin. The next moment, these three men were at the feet of their beloved hero. Sire, said Dumolin, the glove maker, in the name of the citizens of Grenoble, we hereby offer you our services and 100,000 francs collected in the last 24 hours for your use. I accept both, replied the Emperor, while he grasped vigorously the hands of his three most devoted friends. St. Janice uttered a loud and comprehensive curse, then he pulled his horse abruptly round,

and with such a jerk that it reared and plunged madly forward ere it started galloping away with its frantic rider in the direction of Grenoble. and Grenoble itself was in a turmoil. In the barracks, the cries of Viva La Emperor were incessant. General Marshand was indefatigable in his efforts to still that cry, to rouse in the hearts of the soldiers, a sense of loyalty to the king. Your country and your king, he shouted from barrack room to barrack room. Our country and our emperor responded the soldiers with ever-growing enthusiasm. The spirit of the army and of the people were Bonapartist to the core. They had never trusted either Marchand or Prefet Fourier who had turned their coats so readily at the restoration. They hated the emigres, the Compt de Cambrai, the Vicomte de St. Genis,

the Duke de Embron, with their old-fashioned ideas of the semi-divine rights of the nobility second only to the godlike ones of the king, they thought them arrogant and untamed, over-ready to grab once more all the privileges which a bloody revolution had swept away. To them, Napoleon, despite the brilliant days of the empire, despite his autocracy, his militarism, and his arrogance represented the people, the advanced spirit of the revolution. His downfall had meant a return to the old regime, the regime of feudal rights, of farmers general, of heavy taxation, and deer bread. Viva la Emperor was cried in the barracks, and Viva la Emperor at the street corners. A squadron of Hussars had marched into Grenoes,

noble from Vienne just before noon, the same squadron which a few months ago at a review by the Comte de Artois in the presence of the king had shouted, Viva la Emperor, what faith could be put in their loyalty now. But two infantry regiments came in at the same time from Chamboree, and on these, General Marchand hoped to be able to reckon. The Compt Charles de la Bedoyer was in command of the Seventh Regiment, and though he had served in Prussia under Napoleon, he had tendered his oath loyally to Louis the 18th at the restoration. He was a tried and able soldier, and Marchand believed in him. The general himself reviewed both infantry regiments on the Place d'Arms on their arrival, and then posted them upon the ramparts of the city, facing direct to the southeast,

and dominating the road to Le Mour. De La Bétreux remained in command of the seventh. For two hours, he paced the ramparts in a state of the greatest possible adjutant. The nearness of Napoleon, of the man who had been his comrade in arms first and his leader afterwards, had a terribly disturbing effect upon his spirit. From below in the city, the people's mutterings, their grumbling, their sullen excitement seemed to rise upwards like an intoxicating incense, The attitude of the troops, of the gunners, as well as of the garrison and of his own regiment, worked more potently still upon the colonel's already shaken loyalty.

Then suddenly his mind is made up. He draws his sword and shouts, Viva la Emperor. Soldiers, he calls, follow me. I will show you the way to duty. Follow me. Viva la Emperor. Viva la Emperor vociferate the troops. After me, my men, to the Bonn Gate, after me, cries de la Bedoyer. And to the shouts of Viva La Emperor, the seventh regiment of infantry, passes through the gate and marches along the streets of the suburb on towards La Mure.

General Marchant hastily apprised. of the wholesale defection sends Colonel Villiers in hot haste in the wake of Dela Bedoyer. Villiers comes up with the latter two kilometers outside Grenoble.

He talks, he persuades, he admonishes, he skulls. De La Bedoyer and his men are firm. Your country and your king shouts Villiers. Our country and our emperor respond the men, and they go to join the old guard at Lafrey, while Villiers, in despair, rides back into Grenoble. In the town, the desertion of the seventh has had a very serious effect. The muttered cries of Viva la Emperor

are open shouts now. General Marchand is at his wits, and he has ordered the closing of every city gate, and still the soldiers in batches of tens and twenties at a time contrive to escape out of the town, carrying their arms and in many cases baggage with them. The royalist faction, the women as well as the men, spend the whole day in and out of the barrack rooms talking to the men, trying to infuse into them loyalty to the king, and to cheer them up. by bringing them wine and provisions. In the afternoon, the Vicomte de St. Genis, sick, exhausted, his horse covered with lather, comes back with the story of the pass of Lafrey

and Napoleon's triumphant march toward Grenoble. Marchand seriously contemplates evacuating the city in order to save the garrison and his stores. Prefect Fourier, congratulations. himself on his foresight, and on that he has transferred the 25 million francs from the cellars of the Hotel de Ville into the safekeeping of Monsieur Lecomte de Cambrai. He and General Marchand both hope and think that the brigand and his horde cannot possibly be at the gates of Grenoble before the morrow, and that Madame La Duchess de Aegean would be well on her

way to Paris with the money by that time. Marchand, in the meanwhile, has made up his mind to retire from the city with his troops. It is only a strategic measure, he argues, to save bloodshed and to save his stores pending the arrival of the Comte de Artois at Lyons with the Army Corps. He gives the order for the general retreat to commence at two o'clock in the morning. Satisfied that he has done the right thing, he finally goes back to his quarters in the Hotel Doudafin, close to the ramparts. The Camp de Cambrai is his guest at dinner, and toward seven o'clock, the two men at last sit down to a hurried meal, both their minds filled with apprehension and not a little fear as to what the next few days will bring.

of course only a question of time, says the Comte de Cambrai, airily. Monseigneur Le Comte de Artois will be at Lyons directly with 40,000 men, and he will easily crush that marauding band of pirates. But this time, the Corsican, after his defeat, must be put more effectually out of harm's way. I personally was never much in favor of Elba. The English have some islands out in the Atlantic or the Pacific, response General Marchand, with firm decision. It would be safest to shoot the brigand, but failing that, let the English send him to one of those islands

and undertake to guard him well. Let us drink to that proposition, my dear Marchand, concludes Monsieur Lacomte with a smile. Hardly had the two men convent. included this toast, when a fearful din is heard, regular howls, proceeding from the suburb of Bonn. The windows of the hotel give on the ramparts, and the house itself dominates the Bonn gate and the military ground beyond it. Hastely, Marchand jumps up from the table and throws open the window. He and the Compt step out upon the balcony. The din has become.

deafening, with a hand that slightly trembles now. General Marchand points to the extensive grounds that lie beyond the city gate, and Monsieur Lecomte quickly smothers an exclamation of terror. A huge crowd of peasants armed with scyths and carrying torches which flicker in the frosty air have invaded the slopes and flats of the military zone. They are yelling, Viva la Emperor at the top of their voices, and from walls and bastions reverberates the answering cry, Viva la Emperor, vociferated by infantrymen and gunners and suppers, and echoed and re-echoed with passionate enthusiasm by the people of Grenoble, assembled in their thousands in the narrow streets, which abut upon the ramparts, and in the myths of the peasantry, surrounded by them, as by a cordon,

Napoleon and his small army, just reinforced by the seventh regiment of infantry, have halted, expectant. Napoleon's aide-de-camp, Capitan Raoul, accompanied by half a dozen Lancers, comes up to the palisade, which bars the immediate approach to the city gates. Open, he cries loudly, so loudly that his young, firm voice rises above the tumult around. Open, in the name of the emperor. Marchand sees it all. He hears the commanding summons, hears the thunderous and enthusiastic cheers, which greet Captain Raoul's call to surrender.

He and the Compt de Cambrai are still standing upon the balcony of the hotel that faces the gate of Bon and dominates from its high ground the ramparts opposite. White-cheeked and silent, the two men have gazed before them and have understood. To attempt to stem this tide of popular enthusiasm would inevitably be fatal. The troops inside Grenoble were as ready to cross over to the Brigham Standard as was Colonel de la Bedouer's regiment of infantry. The ramparts and the surrounding military zone were lit up by hundreds of torches by their flickering light. The two men on the balcony could see the faces of the people and those of the soldiers who were even now, being ordered to fire upon Raoul and the Lancers. Colonel Roussel, who is in command of the troops at the gate,

sends a hasty messenger to General Marchand. The brigand demands that we open the gate, reports the messenger breathlessly. Tell the colonel to give the order to fire, is Marchand's peremptory response. Are you coming with me, M. M. Lecomte, he asks hurriedly, but he does not wait for a reply. Rapping his cloak around him, he goes in the wake of the messenger.

Mouser Lecompt de Cambre is close on his heels. Five minutes later, the general is up on the ramparts. He has thrown a quick, piercing glance around him. There are 2,000 men up here, 20 guns, ammunition in plenty. Out there, only peasants and a heterogeneous band of some 1,500 men. One shot from a gun, perhaps, would send all that crowd flying. The first fusillade might scatter the band of Briggins, but Marchand cannot, dare not give the positive order to fire.

He knows that rank in subordination, positive refusal to obey would follow. He talks to the men, he harangues, he begs them to defend their city against this horde of Corsican pirates, to every word he says, the man but oppose the one cry, Viva la Emperor. The Comte de Cambrai turns in despair to Monsieur de Saint-Genis, who is a captain of artillery, and whose men had hitherto been supposed to be tried and loyal royalists. If the men won't fire, Maris asks the Compt in despair, cannot the officers at least fire the first shot? Mursor la Comte replies St. Genes through set teeth, for his heart was filled with wrath and shame at the defection of his men. The gunners have declared that if the officer shoot, the men will shatter them to pieces with their own back.

batteries. The crowds outside the gate itself are swelling visibly. They press in from every side toward the city, loudly demanding the surrender of the town. Open the gates. Open, they shout, and their clamor becomes more insistent every moment. Already they have broken down the palisades which surround the military zone. They pour down the slopes against the gate. But, But the ladder is heavy and massive, studded with iron, stoutly resisting axe or pick. Open, they cry, open in the emperor's name. They are within hailing distance of the soldiers on the ramparts. What price your plums, they shout gaily to the gunners.

Quite cheap, retort the latter with equal gaiety, but there's no danger of the emperor getting any. The women sing the old couplet. Bon, Bon, Napoleon, va rentre d'an Sammasan, and the soldiers on the ramparts take up the refrain. Noe Salons va la Grande, Napoleon. LaVainqueur de Tautsless nations.

What can we do, Massor Lecomte, says General Marchand, at last, we shall have to give in. I'll not start. and see it, replies the comte, I should die of shame. Even while the two men are talking and discussing the possibilities of an early surrender, Napoleon himself has forced his way through the tumultuous throng of his supporters, and accompanied by Victor de Marmont and Colonel de la Badoir, he advances as far as the gate, which still stands barred defiantly against him.

I command you to open this gate, he cries aloud. Colonel Roussel, who is in command, replies defiantly, I only take orders from the general himself. He is relieved of his command, retorts Napoleon. I know my duty, insists Roussel. I only take orders from the general. Victor de Marmont. intoxicated with his own enthusiasm, maddened with rage at sight of St. Genus,

whose face is just then thrown into vivid light by the glare of the torches, cries wildly, soldiers of the emperor who are being forced to resist him, turn on those treacherous officers of yours, tear off their epaulets. I say, His shrill and frantic cries seem to precipitate the inevitable climax. The tumult has become absolutely delirious. The soldiers on the ramparts tumble over one another in a mad rush for the gate, which they try to break open with the butt end of their rifles. But they dare not actually attack their own officers. And in any case, they know that the keys of the city are still in the hands of General Marchand, and General Marchand has suddenly disappeared. Feeling the hopelessness and futility of further resistance, he has gone back to his hotel and is even now giving orders and making preparations for leaving Grenoble. Prefet Fourier hastily summoned is with him, and the Comte de Cambrai is preparing to return,

immediately to Brestolo. We shall all leave for Paris tomorrow as early as possible, he says, as he finally takes leave of the general and the prefect, and take the money with us, of course, if the king, which God forbid, is obliged to leave Paris, it will be most acceptable to him, until the day when the allies are once more in the field and ready to crush, irretrieving. this time, this Corsican scourge of Europe. One or two of the royalist officers have succeeded in massing together some two or three hundred men out of several regiments, who appear to be determined to remain loyal. St. Genus is not among these. His men had been among the first to cry, Viva la Emperor, when ordered to fire on the brigand and his horde. And his hordeaux,

they had even gone so far as to threaten their officers' lives. Now, covered with shame and boiling with wrath at the defection, St. Genis asks leave of the general to escort Massour Lecombe de Cambrai and his party to Paris. We shall be better off for extra protection, urges Monsieur Lecombe de Cambre, in support of St. Genes's plea for leave, I shall only have the coachman and two postillions with me. M. de Saint-Genis would be of immense assistance in case of footpads. The road to Paris is quite safe, I believe, says General Marchand,

and at Lyons you will meet the army of M. Lecomte de d'Artois. But perhaps M. de Saint-Gentis had better accompany you as far as there, at any rate, he can then report himself at Lyons. Twenty-five millions is a large sum, of course, but the purpose of your journey has remained a secret, has it not? Of course, says Monsieur Lecomte unhesitatingly, for he has completely erased Victor de Marmont from his mind. Well, then, all you need fear is an attack from footpads,

and even that is unlikely, concludes General. Marchand, who by now is in a great hurry to go. But Monsieur de Saint-Genis has my permission to escort you. The general entrust the keys of the Bon Gate to Colonel Roussel. He has barely time to execute his hasty flight, having arranged to escape out of Grenoble by the St. Laurent Gate on the north of the town. In the meanwhile, a carter from the suburb of St. Joseph outside the Bon Gate has harnessed a team of horses to one of his wagons and brought along a huge joist. Twenty pairs of willing and stout arms are already manipulating this powerful engine for the breaking open of the resisting gate. Already, the doors are giving way, the hinges creak,

And while General Marchand and Prefet Fourier, with their small body of faithful soldiers, rush precipitately across the deserted streets of the town, Colonel Roussel, makes ready to open the gate of Bonn to the emperor and to his soldiers. My regiment was prepared to turn against me, he says to his men, but I shall not turn against them. Then he formally throws open the gate. Ecstatic delight, joyful enthusiasm succeeds the frantic cries of a while ago. Napoleon entering the city of Grenoble was nearly crushed to death by the frenzy of the crowd, cheered to the echoes, surrounded by a delirious populace which hardly allowed him to move. It was hours before he succeeded in reaching the hotel destroyed Daffines,

where he was resolved to spend the night, since it was kept by an ex-soldier, one of his own old guard of the Italian campaign. The enthusiasm was kept up all night. The town was illuminated. Until dawn, men and women paraded the streets, singing the Marseille, and shouting Viva la Emperor. In a small room, simply furnished, but cozy and comfortable, the great adventurer who had conquered half the world and lost it and had now set out to conquer it again,

sat with half a dozen of his most faithful friends. Cambron and Raoul, Victor de Marmont, and Emery. On the table spread out before him was an ordinance map of the province. His clenched hand rested upon it. His eyes, those eagle-like piercing eyes, which had so often called his soldiers to victory, gazed out straight before him, as if through the bare, whitewashed walls of this humble hotel room, he saw the vision of the brilliant halls of the Tulleries, the imperial throne, the empress beside him, all her faithlessness and pusillanimity forgiven. His son, whom he worked, worshiped, his marshals grouped around him, and with a gesture of proud defiance, he threw back his head and said loudly, until today I was only an adventurer. Tonight I am a prince once more.

It was the next morning in that same sparsely furnished and uncarpeted room of the Hotel Des Tois da Fins that Napoleon spoke to Victor de Marmont to Emery. To Emory. and Dumolin about the money which had been stolen last year from the Empress, and which he understood had been deposited in the cellars of the Hotel de Ville. I am not going, he said, to levy a war tax on my good city of Grenoble, but my good and faithful soldiers must be paid, and I must provision my army in case I encounter stronger resistance at Lyons. than I can cope with, and am forced to make a detour. I want the money, the empress's money, which that infamous Talleyrand stole from her. So you, de Marmont, had best go straight away

to the Hotel de Ville, and in my name summoned the prefeit to appear before me. You can tell him at once that it is on account of the money. I will go at once, sire, replied de with a regretful sigh, but I fear me that it is too late. Too late snapped out the emperor with a frown. What do you mean by too late? I mean that Fourier has left Grenoble in the trail of Marchand, and that two days ago, unless I'm very much mistaken, he disposed of the money.

Disposed of the money, you are mad, de Marmont. Not altogether, sire, when I'm very much mistaken, he disposed of the money. I say that Fourier disposed of the Empress's money, I only mean that he deposited it in what he would deem a safe place. The Kerr, exclaimed Napoleon, with a yet tighter clenching of his hand and mighty fist, turning against the hand that fed him and made him what he is. Well, he added impatiently, where is the money now? In the keeping of Monsieur Le Comte de Cambrai at Brestolo, replied de Marmont, without hesitation. Very well, said the emperor, take a company of the seventh regiment with you to Brestolo and requisition the money at once. If, as I believe, the Compt no longer

has the money by him, make him tell you where it is. I mean, sire, that it is my belief that Monsieur Lecomte's sister and daughter will undertake to take the money to Paris, hoping by their sex and general air of innocence to escape suspicion in connection with the money. Don't worry me with all these details, de Marmont broke in Napoleon with a frown of impatience. I told you to take a company with you and to get me the Empress's money. See to it that this is done and leave me in peace. He hated arguing, hated opposition, the very suggestion of any difficulty. His followers and intimates knew that. Already de Marmont had repented that he had allowed his time. He had allowed his tongue to ramble on quite so much. Now he felt that silence must redeem his blunder, silence now,

and success in his undertaking. He bent the knee for this homage, the great Corsican adventurer, and one-time dictator of civilized Europe, loved to receive. He kissed the hand which had once wielded the scepter of a mighty empire, and was ready now to grasp it again. again. Then he rose and gave the military salute. It shall be done, sire, was all that he said. His heart was full of enthusiasm, and the task allotted to him was a congenial one, the baffling and discomfiture of those who had insulted him. If, as he believed, Crystal would be accompanying her aunt on the journey toward Paris, then indeed would his own longing for some sort of revenge for the humiliation which he had endured on that memorable Sunday evening

be fully gratified. It was with a light and swinging step that he ran down the narrow stairs of the hotel. In the little entrance hall below, he met Clifford. In his usual impulsive way, without thought of what had gone before or was likely to happen in the future, he went up to the Englishman with outstretched hand. My dear Clifford, he said with unaffected cordiality, I am glad to see you. I have been wondering what had become of you since we parted on Sunday last. My dear friend, he added ecstatically, what glorious events, eh? He did not wait for Clifford's reply. nor did he appear to notice the latter's obvious coldness of manner, but went prattling on with great volubility. What a man, he exclaimed, nodding significantly, in the direction whence he had just

come, a six-days march, mostly on foot, and along steep mountain paths, and today as fresh and vigorous as if he had just spent a month's holiday at some pleasant watering place. What luck to be serving such a man, and what luck to be able to render him really useful service. The tables will be turned, A, my dear Clifford, he added, giving his taciturned friend a jovial dig in the ribs, and what lovely discomfiture for our proud aristocrats, eh? they will be sorry to have made an enemy of Victor de Marmont. What? Whereupon Clifford made a violent effort to appear friendly and jovial too. Why, he said with a pleasant laugh, what madcap ideas are floating through your head now?

Madcap schemes ejaculated de Marmont, nothing more or less, my dear Clifford, than complete revenge for the humiliation, those to Cambres put upon me last Sunday. Revenge, that sounds exciting, said Clifford with a smile, even while his palm itched to slap the young Braggart's face. Exciting, Pardieu, of course it will be exciting. They have no idea that I guessed their little machinations. Madame La Duchess de Agen traveling to Paris forsooth, I, but with five and and twenty millions sewn somewhere inside her petticoats. Well, the emperor happens to want his own five and twenty millions, if you please. So Madame la Duchess or Monsieur Lecomte will have to disgorge,

and I shall have the pleasing task of making them disgorge. What say you to that, friend Clifford, that I am sorry for you, replied the other dryly. Sorry for me. Why? Because it is never a pleasing task to bully a defenseless woman and an old one at that. De Marmont laughed aloud, bully Madame La Duchess to Agin. He exclaimed, Sacre Tonner. What do you take me for? I shall not bully her. Fifty soldiers don't bully a defenseless woman. We shall treat Madame La Duchess with every consideration. We shall only remove five and twenty millions of stolen money from her carriage. That is all. You may be mistaken about the money, de Marmont. It may be anywhere except in the keeping of Madame

La Duchess. It may be at the Chateau de Brestelo in the keeping of Messrs Lecombe de Cambrai, and this I shall find out first of all, but I must not stand gossiping any longer. I must seek Colonel de la Bedoyer and get the men I want. What are your plans, my dear Clifford? The same as before, replied Bobby quietly. I shall leave Grenoble as soon as I can. Let the Emperor send you on a special mission to Lord Grenville in London, to urge England to remain neutral in the coming struggle. I think not, said Clifford, enigmatically. De Marmont did not wait to ask him to what this brief remark had applied. He bade his friend a hasty farewell, then he turned on his heel,

and gaily whistling the refrain of the Marseilles, stalked out of the hotel. Clifford remained standing in the narrow, paneled hall, which just then reeked strongly of stewed onions and of hot coffee. He never moved a muscle, but remained absolutely quiet for the space of exact. two minutes. Then he consulted his watch. It was then close on midday and finally went back to his room. An hour after dawn, that self-same morning, the traveling coach of Massaure Lecomte de Cambrai was at the parent of the Chateau de Brestelo. At the last moment when Monsieur Lecomte, hopelessly discouraged by the surrender of Grenoble to the usurper came home at a late hour of the night, he decided that he, too, would journey to Paris with his sister and daughter, taking the money with him to his majesty,

who indeed would soon be in sore need of funds. At the same late hour of the night, Messrs. Lecomte discovered that, with the exception of faithful Hector and one or two Scullions, in the kitchen, his male servants, both indoor and out, had wandered in a body out to Grenoble to witness the emperor's entry into the city. They had marched out of the chateau to the cry of Viva la Emperor, and outside the gates had joined a number of villagers of Brestolo, who were bent on the same errand. Fortunately, one of the coachmen and two of the older groups, and two of the older grooms from the stables returned in the early dawn after the street demonstrations outside the emperor's windows had somewhat calmed down, and with the routine of many years of domestic service, had promptly,

and without murmurings, set to obey the orders given to them the day before, to have the traveling burline ready with four horses by seven o'clock. It was very cold. The coachman and postilions shivered under their threadbare liveries. The coachman had wrapped a woolen comforter round his neck and pulled his white beaver broad-brimmed hat well over his brows as the northeast wind was keen and would blow into his face all the way to lions, where the party would halt for the night. He had thick woolen gloves on and of his entire burly person, only the tip of his nose could be seen between his muffler and the brim of his hat. The postilions, whip in hand, could not wrap themselves up quite so snugly. They were trying to keep themselves warm by beating

their arms against their chest. M. Lacomte, aided by Hector, was arranging for the disposal of leather wallets underneath the cushions of the carriage. The wallets contained the money, 25 millions in notes and drafts, a godsend to the king if the usurper did succeed in driving him out of the tulleries. Presently the ladies came down the parent steps with faithful Jean in attendance,

who carried small bags and dressing cases. Both the ladies were wrapped in long, fur-lined, cloaks, and Madame La Duchess de Adjan had drawn a hood closely round her face. But Crystal, the Cambrai, stood bareheaded in the cold, frosty air, the hood of her cloak thrown back, her own fair hair, dressed high, forming the only covering for her head. End of Chapter 4, Part 1. Chapter 4, Part 2 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orcs This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. Her face looked grave and even anxious, but wonderfully serene. This should have been her wedding morning. The bells of Old Brestolo Church should even now have been ringing out their first joyous peal to announce the great event. Often and often in the past few weeks,

Ever since her father had formally betrothed her to Victor de Marmont, she had thought of this coming morning and steeled herself to be brave against the fateful day. She had been resigned to the decree of the father and to the necessities of family and name, resigned but terribly heart sore. She was obeying of her own free will, but not blindly. she knew that her marriage to a man whom she did not love was a sacrifice on her part of every hope of future happiness. Her girlish love for St. Genis had opened her eyes to the possibilities of happiness. She knew that life could hold out a veritable cornucopia of delight and joy in a union which was hallowed by love, and her ready sacrifice was therefore all. the greater, all the more sublime, because it was not offered up in ignorance. But all that now was changed. She was once more free to indulge in those dreams which had gladdened the days and

nights of her lonely girlhood out in far off England, dreams which somehow had not even found their culmination when St. Genes first told her of his love for her. They had always been golden dreams, which had haunted her in those distant days, dreams of future happiness, and of love, which are seldom absent from a young girl's mind, especially if she is a little lonely, has few pleasures, and is surrounded with an atmosphere of sadness. Crystal the Cambrai, standing on the parent of her stately home, felt but little sorrow at leaving it today. She had hardly had the time in one brief year to get very much attached to it. The sense of unreality which had been born in her when her father led her through its vast halls

and stately parks had never entirely left her. The little home in England, the tiny sitting room with its bow window, and small front garden edged with dusty evergrain's was far more real to her even now. She felt as if the last year, with its pomp and gloomy magnificence, was all a dream, and that she was once more on the threshold of reality now, on the point of waking, when she would find herself once more in her narrow iron bed and see the patched and darned muslin curtains gently waving in the draft. But for the moment, she was glad enough to give herself to the delight of this sudden consciousness of freedom. She sniffed the sharp, frosty air with dilated nostrils like a young Arab Philly that sensed the illimitable vastness of Meadowland around her.

The excitement of the coming adventure thrilled her. She watched with glowing eyes the preparations for the journey, the bestowl under the cushions of the carriage of the money, which was to help King Louis to preserve his throne. In a sense, she was sorry that her father and her aunt were coming too. She would have loved to fly a cross-country as a trusted servant of her king. But when the time came to make a start, she took her place in the big traveling coach with a light heart and a merry face. She was so sure of the justice of the king's cause, so convinced of God's wrath against the usurper, that she had no room in her thoughts for apprehension or sadness. The comp to Cambrey, on the other hand, was grave and taciturn. He had spent hours last evening on the ramparts of Grenoble. He had

watched the dissatisfaction of the troops grow into open rebellion. and from that to burning enthusiasm for the Corsican ogre. St. Genes had given him a vivid account of the encounter at Lafrey, and his ears were still ringing with the cries of Viva la Emperor, which had filled the streets and ramparts of Grenoble, until he himself fled back to his own chateau, sickened at all that he had seen and heard. He knew that the king's own.

brother, Monsieur Lecomte de Artois, was at Lyons even now with 40,000 men who were reputed to be loyal, but were not the troops of Grenoble reputed to be loyal to, and was it likely that the regiments at Lyons would behave so very differently to those at Grenoble? Thus, the wearisome journey northwards in the lumbering carriage proceeded mostly in silhou. None of the occupants seemed to have much to say. Madame La Duchess de Agin and Monsieur Lecomte sat on the back seats, leaning against the cushions. Crystal de Cambrai and ever-faithful Jean sat in front, making themselves as comfortable as they could. There was a halt for de Janeiro and change of horses at Reeves, and here Marie's Day St. Janus overtook the party.

He proposed to continue the journey as far as lions on horseback, riding close by the offside of the carriage. Here, as well as at the next halt at St. Andre Lagos, Maris tried to get speech with Crystal, but she seemed cold in manner and unresponsive to his whispered words. He tried to approach her, but she pleaded fatigue and anxiety, and he was glad, then that he had made arrangements not to travel beside her in the lumbering coach. His position on horseback beside the carriage would, he felt, be a more romantic one, and he half hoped that some enterprising footpad would give him a chance of displaying his pluck and his devotion. A start was made from St. Andre Lagos at six o'clock in the afternoon. Crystal was getting very

cramped and tired. Even the fine views over the range of the Grand Chartreuse and the long white plateau of the Dent de Croils with the wintry sunset behind it failed to enchain her attention. Her father and her aunt slept most of the time, each in a corner of the carriage, and after the start from St. Andre Lagos, comforted with hot coffee and fresh bread, and the prospect of lions, now only some 60 kilometers away, Crystal settled herself against the cushions and tried to get some sleep. The incessant shaking of the carriage, the rattle of harness and wheels, the cracking of the postilion's whips, all contributed to making her head ache and to chase slumber away. But gradually her thoughts became more confused, as the dim winter twilight.

light gradually faded into night, and a veil of impenetrable blackness spread itself outside the windows of the coach. The northeasterly wind had not abated. It whistled mournfully through the cracks in the woodwork of the carriage, and made the windows rattle in their framework. On the box, the coachman had much ado to see well ahead of him, as the vapor, which rose from the flank, and shoulders of his steaming horses effectually blurred every outline on the road. The carriage lenthorns threw a weird and feeble light upon the ever-growing darkness. To right and left, the bare and frozen common land stretched its lonely vastness to some distant horizon unseen. Suddenly, the cumbrous vehicle gave a terrific lurch, which sent the unsuspecting Jean flying into Madame La Duchess's lap, and threw crystal with equal violence against her father's knees. There was much cracking of whips, loud calls, and louder oaths from coachmen and postillions, much creaking and groaning of wheels. Another lurch, more feeble this time,

more groaning, more creaking, more oaths, and finally the coach, with a final quivering, as it were of all its parts, settled down to an ominous standstill. Whereafter, the oaths sounded more muffled, while there was a scampering down from the high altitude of the coachman's box and a confused murmur of voices. It was then close on eight o'clock, Lyons was distant, still some dozen miles or so, and the night by now was darker than pitch. M. LaCompte roused from fitful slumbers and trying to gather his wandering wits, put his head out of the window. What is it, Pierre? He called out loudly. What has happened? It's this confounded ditch, Monsieur Lecomte, came in a gruff voice from out the darkness. I

didn't know the bridge had entirely broken down. This sacri government will not look after the roads properly. Are you there, Maurice, called the Comte? But strangely enough, there came no answer to his call. Massour de Saint-Generes must have fallen back some little distance in the rear, else he surely would have heard something of the clatter, the shouts and the swearing, which were attending the present unfortunate contretemps. Maurice, where are you? Called the Compt again, and still no answer.

Pierre was continuing his audible mutterings, darkness as black as... Then he shouted with a yet more forcible volley of oaths. Jean, you oaf, get hold of the off mare, can't you? And you,

what's your name, you fool? Ease the near gilding. Heavens above. What doltz? stop a moment, cried Monsieur Lecomte, wait till the ladies can get out. This pulling and lurching is unbearable. Ease a moment, commanded Pierre stolidly, go to the near door, Jean, and help the master out of the carriage. Hark, what was that? It was Monsieur Lecomte who spoke. There had been a momentary lull in the creaking and groaning of the wheels, while the two young postilions obeyed the coachman's orders to ease a moment,

and one of them came round to help the ladies and his master out of the lurching vehicle. Only the horses snorting, the champing of their bits, and pying of the hard ground, broke the silence of the night. Monsieur Lecomte had opened the near door and was half out of the carriage, when a sound caught his ear, which was in no way connected with the stranded vehicle and its team of snorting horses. Yet the sound came from horses, horses which were on the move not very far away, and which even now seemed to be coming nearer. Who goes there? Maurice, is that you? Called Monsieur Lacomte more loudly. Stand and deliver, came the peremptory response. stand yourself or i fire retorted the comte who was already groping for the pistol which he kept inside the carriage you murderous villain came with the inevitable string of oaths from pierre the coachman you the rest of this forceful expletive was broken and muffled evidently pierre had been summarily gagged there was a short sharp scuffle somewhere on ahead cries for help from the two postilions, which were equally sharply smothered. The horses began rearing and plunging.

One of you at the leader's heads came in a clear voice, which in this impenetrable darkness sounded weirdly familiar to the occupants of the carriage, who, odd, terrified by this unforeseen attack, sat motionless, clinging to one another inside the vehicle. Alone, the Comte had not lost his presence of mind. Already, he had jumped out of the carriage, banging the door to behind him. Despite feeble protests from his sister, pistol in hand, he tried with anxious eyes to pierce the inky blackness around him. A muffled groan on his right caused him to turn in that direction.

Release my coachman, he called peremptorily, or I, fire. Easy, Monsieur Lecomte came as a sharp warning out of the night in those same weirdly familiar tones. As like as not, you would be shooting your own men in this infernal darkness. Who is it? whispered Crystal hoarsely. I seem to know that voice. God protect us, murmured Jean. It's the devil's voice, mademoiselle. Madame La Duchess said nothing. No doubt she too, was frightened to speak. Her thin, bony fingers were clasped tightly round her niece's hands. Suddenly, there was another scuffle by the door, the sharp report of a pistol, and then that strangely familiar voice called out again. Merely as a matter of form, M'Eau la Comte, you will hang for this,

you rogue, came in response from the Comte. But already, Crystal had torn her hands, out of Madame La Duchess's grasp, and now was struggling to free herself from Jean's terrified and clinging embrace. Father, she cried wildly, Maurice, Marise, help, let me go, Jean, they are hurting him. She had succeeded in pushing Jean roughly away, and already had her hand on the door, when it was opened from the outside, and the flickering light of a kid. carriage Lentthorn fell full on the interior of the vehicle. Neither Crystal nor Madame La Duchess could effectually suppress a sudden gasp of terror, whilst Jean threw her shawl right

over her head, for of a truth she thought that here was the devil himself. The light illumined the Lenthorn bearer only fitfully, but to the terror-stricken women, he abhorred. He appeared to be preternaturally tall and broad, with wide-caped coat pulled up to his ears, and an old-fashioned tricorn hat on his head. His face was entirely hidden by a black mask, and his hands by black kid gloves. I pray you, ladies, he said quietly, and this time the voice was obviously disguised and quite unrecognizable. I pray you have no fear. Neither I nor my men will do you or yours the slightest harm if you will allow me without any molestation on your part to make an examination of the interior of your carriage.

Madame La Duchess and Jean remained silent, the one from fear, the other from dignity, but it was not in Crystal's nature to submit quietly to any unlawful coercion. This is an infamy, she protested loudly, and you, my man, will swing on the nearest gallows for it. No doubt I should, if I were found out, said the man imperturbably, but the military patrols of Monsieur Lecomte de Artois don't come out as far as this. Nevertheless, I must ask you, ladies, not to detain me on my business any longer. my men are at the door, and it is over a quarter of an hour ago since we placed Massaure de St. Genis temporarily, yet effectually, oars to combat. I pray you, therefore,

step out without delay so that I may proceed to ascertain whether there is anything in this carriage likely to suit my requirements. You must be a madman as well as a thief, retorted crystal loudly to imagine that we would submit to such an outrage. If you do not submit, Madame, said the man calmly, I will order my man to shoot Massor Lecomte in the right leg. You would not dare. But the miscreant turned his head slowly round and called over his shoulder into the night. Attention, my man, Monsieur Lecombe de Cambre, have you got him? Aye, aye, sir, came from out the darkness.

Crystal gave a wild scream, and with an agonized gesture of terror, clutched the highway robber by the coat. No, no, she cried, stop, stop, no, father, help. Mademoiselle, said the man, quietly releasing his coat from her clinging hands. Remember that Monsieur Lecomte is perfectly safe if you will deign to step out of the carriage without further delay. He held the lanthorn in one hand. The other was suddenly imprisoned by Crystal's trembling fingers. Sir, she pleaded in a voice broken by terror and anxiety, we are helpless travelers on our way to Paris, driven out of our home by the advanced. horde of Corsican Briggins. Our little all we have with us. You cannot take that all from us. Let us give you some money of our own free will. Then the shame of robbing women who have in the darkness of the night been rendered helpless will not rest upon you. Oh, have pity upon us.

Your voice is so gentle. You must be good and kind. You will let us proceed. You will let us proceed. on our way, will you not? And we'll take a solemn oath that will not attempt to put anyone on your track. You will, won't you? I swear to you that you will be doing a far finer deed thereby than you can possibly dream of. I have some jewelry about my person. Here interposed madame's sharp voice dryly, also some gold. I agree to what my niece says. We'll swear to do nothing against you when we reach lions if you will be content with what we give you of our own free will and let us go in peace. The man allowed both ladies to speak without any interruption on his part. He even allowed Crystal's dainty fingers to cling around his gloved hand for as long as she chose. No doubt he found

some pleasure in this tearful appeal from such beautiful lips. For Crystal looked divinely pretty just then with the flickering light of the lanthorn throwing her fair head into bold relief against the surrounding gloom. Her blue eyes were shining with unshed tears. her delicate mouth was quivering with the piteousness of her appeal. But when Madame La Duchess had finished speaking and began to divest herself of her rings, he released his hand very gently and said in his even quiet voice, Your pardon, madame, but as it happens, I have no use for ladies' trinkets. while all that you have been good enough to tell me only makes me the more eager to examine the contents of this carriage.

But there's nothing of value in it, asserted, Madame, unblushingly, except what we are offering you now. That is as may be, madame, I would wish to ascertain. You impious Malapert, she cried out wrathfully, would you dare lay hands upon a a woman? No, madame, certainly not, he replied, I will merely, as I have had the honor to tell you, order my men to shoot Monsieur Lecombe de Cambre in the right leg. You vagabond, you thief, you wouldn't dare, expostulated madame, who seemed now on the verge of hysteria. Attention, my men, he called once more over his left shoulder. It is no use, Conte, here interposed crystal with sudden calm, we must yield to brute force. Let us get out and

allow this abominable thief to wreak his impious will with us. Else we lay ourselves open to further outrage at his hands. Be sure that retribution, swift and certain, will overtake him in the end. Come, that's wisely spoken, said the man, who seemed in no way. way perturbed by the scornful glances which Crystal and Madame now freely darted upon him. He stood a little aside, holding the door open for them to step out of the carriage. Where is Monsieur Le Comte de Cambrai? queried Crystal, as she brushed past him. Close by, he replied, to your right now, mademoiselle, and perfectly safe. and Monsieur Le Marquis de Saint-Genis is not two hundred meters away, equally secure and equally safe.

Here, Labasu, he added, calling out into the night, ease the gag around your prisoner's mouth a little, so that he may speak to the ladies. While Madame La Duchess groped her way along in the direction, once came sounds of stirring, groaning, and not a lot. little cursing, which proclaimed the presence of some men held captive by others. Crystal remained beside the carriage door, as if rooted to the spot. The feeble light of the lanthorn had shown her at a glance that the masked miscreant had taken every precaution for the success of his nefarious purpose. How many men he had with him altogether, she could not, of course, ascertain. half a dozen, perhaps, seeing that her father, the coachman, and two postillions had been overpowered and were being closely guarded, whilst she distinctly saw that two men, at least, were standing behind their chief at this moment, in order to ward off any possible attack against him from the rear, while he himself was engaged in the infamous task of robbing the coach of his.

its contents. Crystal saw him start to work in a most methodical manner. He had stood the lanthorn on the floor of the carriage and was turning over every cushion and ransacking every pocket. The leather wallets which he found, he examined with utmost coolness, seeing indeed that they were stuffed full of banknotes and drafts. His huge caped coat appeared to have immense. pockets into which those precious wallets disappeared one by one. She knew, of course, that resistance was useless. The occasional glint of the feeble lanthorned light upon the pistols held by the man close beside her taught her the salutary lesson of silence and dignity. She clenched her hands until her nails were almost driven into the flesh of her palms. And her face,

now glowed with a fierce and passionate resentment. This money, which might have saved the king and France from the immediate effects of the usurper's invasion, was now the booty of a common thief. Wild thoughts of vengeance coursed through her brain. She felt like a tiger cat that was being robbed of its young. Once unable to control herself, she made a wild dash. forward, determined to fight for her treasure, to scratch or to bite, to do anything, in fact, rather than stand by and see this infamous spoliation. But immediately her hands were seized, and an ominous word of command rang out weirdly through the night. Resistance here, attention over there. Her father's safety was a guarantee of her own acquiescence, struggling,

fighting was useless. The abominable thief must be left to do his work in peace. It did not take long. A minute or two later, he had stepped out of the carriage. He ordered one of his followers to hold the lanthorn and then quietly took up his stand beside the open door. Now, ladies, and you desire it, he said calmly, you may continue your journey, your coachman and your man. Your man. And you are close here on the road securely bound. Monsieur de Saint-Genis is not far off. Straight up the road, you cannot miss him. We leave you free to loosen their bonds.

To horse, my men, he added in a loud, commanding voice. Labasu, hold my horse a moment. And you, ladies, I pray you accept my humble apologies that I do not stop to see you safely. installed. As in a dream, Crystal heard the bustle, incident on a number of men getting to horse in the gloom. She saw vague forms moving about hurriedly. She heard the champing of bits, the clatter of stirrup and bridle. The masked man was the last to move. After he had given the order to mount, he stood for nearly a minute by the carriage door, exactly facing Crystal, not five

paces away. His companion had put the lanthorn down on the step, and by its light she could see him distinctly. A mysterious, masked figure who, with wanton infamy, had placed the satisfaction of his dishonesty and of his greed, athwart the destiny of the king of France. Crystal knew that through the peepholes of his mask, the man's eyes were fixed intently. upon her, and the knowledge caused a blush of mortification and of shame to flood her cheeks and throat. At that moment, she would gladly have given her life for the power to turn the tables upon that abominable rogue, to filch from him that precious treasure which she had hoped to deposit at the feet of the king for the ultimate success of his cause.

and she would have given much for the power to tear off that concealing mask so that for the rest of her life she might be able to visualize that face which she would always execrate. Something of what she felt and thought must have been apparent in her expressive eyes. For presently it seemed to her as if beneath the narrow curtain that concealed the lower part, of the man's face, there hovered the shadow of a smile. The next moment he had the audacity slightly to raise his hat and to make her a bow before he finally turned to go. Crystal had taken one step backward just then, whether because she was afraid that the man would try and approach her, or because of a mere sense of dignity, she could not herself have said.

certain it is that she did move back, and that in so doing her foot came in contact with an object lying on the ground. The shape and size of it were unmistakable. It was the pistol, which the comte must have dropped, when first he stepped out of the carriage, and was seized upon by this band of thieves, guided by that same strange and wonderful instinct, which has so often caused women in times of war to turn against the assailants of their men or devastation of their homes, Crystal picked up the weapon without a moment's hesitation. She knew that it was loaded, and she knew how to use it. Even as the masked man moved away into the darkness, she fired in the direction.

she fired in the direction once his firm footsteps still sent their repeated echo. The short, sharp report died out in the still frosty air. Crystal vainly strained her ears to catch the sound of a fall or a groan. But in the confusion that ensued she could not distinguish any individual sound. She knew that Madame La Duchess and Jean had screamed. She heard a few loud curses, the clatter of bits and bridles, the snorting of horses, and presently the noise of several horses galloping away, out in the direction of chambery. Then nothing more.

Messor Lacomte, as well as the coachman and postilions, were lying helpless and bound somewhere in the darkness. It took the three women some time to find them first, and then to release. them. Crystal, with great presence of mind, had run to the horse's heads directly after she had fired that random shot. The poor frightened animals had reared and plunged and had thereby succeeded in dragging the heavy carriage out of the ditch, after which they had stopped, rigid for a moment, and trembling as horses will sometimes when they are terrified, before they start running away. for dear life. That moment was Crystal's opportunity, and fortunately she took it at the right time

and in the right way. A hand on the leader's bridles, a soothing voice, the absence of further alarming noises tended at once to quieten the team, a set of good, steady Normandy draft horses with none too much corn in their bellies to heat their sluggish blood. While Crystal stood, at her post. Madame La Duchess, cool and practical, found her way firstly to Massor Lacomte, then to the coachman and postilions, and ordering Jean to help her, she succeeded in freeing the men from their bonds. Then calling to one of them to precede her with a lanthorn, she started on the quest for Maurice de St. Genis. He was found, as that abominable thief had said, said some 200 yards up the road, very securely bound, and with his own handkerchief tied round his

mouth, but otherwise comfortably laid on a dry bit of roadside grass. Madame La Duchess would not reply to his questions, but after he was released and able to stand up, she made him give her a brief account of his adventure. It had all been so sudden and so quick. He had fallen back a little behind the carriage as soon as the night had set in as he thought it safer to keep along the edge of the road. He was feeling tired and drowsy and allowing his horse to amble along in the slow jog-trot peculiar to its race. No doubt his attention had for some time been on the wander. When all at once, in the darkness, someone seized hold of his horse by the bridle and forced it back upon its haunches. The next moment, Maurice felt himself grabbed by the leg and dragged off his horse. He shouted for help,

but the carriage was on ahead, and its own rattle prevented the shouts. from being heard, after which he was bound and gagged, and summarily left to lie by the roadside. He had had no chance against the ruffians, as they were numerous, but they did not attempt to ill-use him in any way, slowly hobbling towards the carriage beside Madame La Duchess, for he was cramped and stiff. Maris told her all there was to tell. He had heard the distant scuffle, the shouts and calls, also one pistol shot at the end, but he had been rendered helpless even before the carriage had come to a halt in the ditch. It was Monsieur Lecomte, who in his accustomed measured tones now gave Maurice de Saint-Genis the details of this awful adventure, the ransacking

of the carriage by the mysterious miscreant, the loss of the 25 millions, the complete shattering of all hope to help the king with this money in the hour of his need. And finally, Crystal's desperate act of revenge as she shot the pistol off into the darkness, hoping at least to disable the impudent rogue who had done them and the king such a fatal injury. St. Genus listened to it all, with lips held tightly pressed together. determination, causing every muscle in his body to grow taught and firm with the earnestness of his resolve. When Monsieur Lecomte had finished speaking, and with a sigh of discouragement, had suggested an immediate continuation of his journey, Maurice said resolutely,

do you go on straightway to lions with the ladies, my dear Comte, but I shall not leave this neighborhood till by some means or other I find those miscreants and lay their infamous leader by the heel. Well spoken, Maurice, said the Compt guardedly, but how will you do it? It is late and the night darker than ever. You must spare me one of your horses, my dear Compt, replied the young man, as mine apparently has been stolen by those abominable thieves, and I'll ride back to the nearest village. You remember we passed it not half an hour ago. I'll get lodgings there and get some information. In the meanwhile, perhaps you will see M. Lecomte de Artois immediately. Tell him all that has happened and beg him to send me as early in the morning as possible

a dozen cavalrymen or so to help me scour the country. I'll be on the lookout for. I'll be on the lookout for, them on this road by six o'clock. And please, God, the day shall not go by before we have those infamous marauders by the heels. Twenty-five millions, remember, are not dragged about open country quite so easily as those thieves imagine. They are bound to leave some trace of their whereabouts sometimes. He appeared so confident and so cheerful that some of his optimism infected Monsieur Lecomte, too. The latter promised to get an audience of Monsieur Lecomte de Artois that very evening, and of course the necessary cavalry patrol would at once be forthcoming. God grant you success, Maurice, he added fervently, and the young man's energy and enthusiasm were also rewarded by a warm,

glowing look from crystal. A quarter of an hour afterwards, Monsieur Lecombe's traveling coach was once more ready for departure. Pierre had been given his orders to make do haste for lions and to drive a unicorn team of three horses instead of a regulation for, whereupon he had muttered a string of oaths which would have caused a Paris wine shop loafer to blush. One of the horses thereupon was detached from the team for Marisa's use and made ready with one of the postilion's saddles. The other postillion had to climb up to the seat next to the coachman. All three men were feeling not a little shamed at the sorry role which they had just played, and they vowed revenge against the mysterious thieves, who,

had sprung upon them unawares and in the dark, or more due, they would have suffered severely for their impudence. In silence, M. LaCompte, Madame LaDuchess and Crystal, followed by faithful Jean, re-entered the carriage. No one had been hurt. Moseer Lecompt's arms felt a little stiff from the cords which had bound them behind his back, and Jean was inclined to be his But Crystal felt a fierce resentment burning in her heart. Somehow she had no hope that Maurice would succeed, even though she threw him at the last, a kindly and encouraging smile. Her one hope was that she had inflicted a painful, if not a deadly wound upon the shameless robber of the king's money. Soon the party was once more comfortably settled, and the cumbrous vehicle, after another violent lurch, was once more on its way.

Farewell, Maurice, good luck, called Monsieur Lecomte at the last. The young man waited until the heavy carriage swung more easily upon its springs, then he mounted his horse, turned its head in the opposite direction, and rode slowly back up the rest. road. Inside the vehicle, all was silent for a while. Then Monsieur Lecompt asked quietly, did he find everything? Everything, replied Crystal. I put in five wallets. Yes, he took them all. It is curious that they should have fallen on us just by that broken bridge. They were lying in wait for us, of course, knowing that we had the money, do you think? asked the Compt. Of course, of course replied crystal with still that note of bitter resentment in her voice but who besides ourselves and the prefit began the comte who clearly was very puzzled victor de marmot for one retorted the girl surely you don't suppose that he would play the role of a highway man and no i don't she broke in somewhat impatiently he wouldn't have the pluck for one thing and, moreover, the masked man was considerably taller than Victor. Well, then, it is only an idea, father, dear, she said more gently,

but somehow I cannot believe that this was just ordinary highway robbery. This road is supposed to be quite safe. Travelers are not warned against armed highwaymen, and marauders wouldn't be so well horsed and clothed. My belief is that it was a paid gang stationed at the broken bridge on purpose to rob us, and no one else. Maris will soon be after them tomorrow, and I'll see Mouser Lecomte de Artois directly. We get to Lyons, said the comte, after a slight pause, during which he was obviously pondering over his daughter's suggestion. It won't be any use, Father, Crystal said with a

sigh, the whole thing has been organized, I am sure, and the head that planned this abominable robbery will know how to place his booty in safety. Whereupon the Compt sighed, for he was too well-bred to curse in the presence of his daughter and his sister, Madame La Duchess had said nothing all this while, nor did she offer any comment upon the mysterious occurrence all the time that the next stage of the wearisome journey proceeded. Less than an hour later, the coach came to a halt once more. M. LaComte woke up with a start. My God, he exclaimed, what is it now? Crystal had not been asleep. Her thoughts were too busy. Her brain too much tormented with trying to find some plausible answer to the riddle which agitated her. Who has

planned this abominable robbery, was it indeed Victor de Marmont himself, or had a greater, a mightier mind than his, discovered the secret of this swift journey to Paris and ordered the clever raid upon the treasure? The rumble of the wheels had, though she was awake, prevented her from hearing the rapid approach of a number of horses in the wake of the coach until a peremptory halt in the name of the emperor, suddenly chased every other thought away. Like her father, she murmured, my God, what is it now?

This time there was no mystery. There would be no puzzlement as to the meaning of this fresh attack. The air was full of those sounds that denote the presence of many horses and of many men. There was two, the clinking, of metal, the champing of steel bits, the brief words of command, which proclaimed the men to be soldiers. They appeared to be all round the coach, for the noise of their presence came from everywhere at once. Already the comte had put his head out of the window. What is it now? He asked again, more peremptorily this time. In the name of the emperor was the loud reply, we do not

halt in the name of an usurper, said the comte, an avant, Pierre. You urge those horses on at your peril, coachman, was the defiant retort. A quick word of command was given. There was more clanking of metal, snorting of horses, loud curses from Pierre on the box, and the commanding voice spoke again.

M. Le Compt de Cambrai, that is my name, replied the comte. and who is it, pray, who dares impede peaceful travelers on their way? By order of the emperor, was the curt reply. I know of no such person in France. Viva la Emperor was shouted defiantly in response, whereupon Monsieur Le Comte de Cambrai, proud, disdainful, and determined to show no fear or concern, withdrew from the window, and threw himself back against the cushions of the carriage.

What in the Virgin's name is the meaning of this? Murted Madame La Duchess. God in heaven only knows, sighed the Comte. But obviously, the coach had not been stopped by a troop of mounted soldiers for the mere purpose of proclaiming the Emperor's name on the High Road in the Dark. The same commanding voice which had answered the Comptus, Tomp's challenge was giving rapid orders to dismount and to bring along one of the carriage lanthorns.

The next moment the door of the coach was opened from without, and the light of the lanthorn held up by a man in uniform fell full on the figure and on the profile of Victor de Marmont. M. Lecomte, I regret, he said coldly, in the name of the emperor, I must demand. from you, the restitution of his property. The Compt shrugged his shoulders and vouchsafed, no reply. Monsieur Lecompt, said de Marmont, more peremptorily this time, I have 24 men with me who will seize by force, if necessary, that which I herewith command you to give up voluntarily.

Still no reply. M. Lecompt de Cambrai would think himself be mean, were he to parley with a traitor. As you will, Monsieur Lecompt was de Marmont's calm comment on the old man's attitude. Sargent, he commanded, seize the four persons in this coach. Three of them are women, so be as gentle as you can. Go round to the other door first. Father, now urged Crystal gently, do you think that this is wise or dignified? Wisely spoke. Mademoiselle Crystal rejoined de Marmont, have I not said that I have two dozen soldiers with me, all trained to do their duty? Why should Monsieur Lecomte allow them to lay hands upon you and on

Madame la Duchess? It is an outrage, broken the Compt savagely. You and your soldiers are traitors, rebels and deserters. But we are in superior numbers, Monsieur Lecomte, said de Marmont with a sneer. Would it not be wiser to yield with a good grace? Madame La Duchess, he added with an attempt at geniality, yours was always the wise head, I am told, that guided the affairs of Monsieur Lecompt de Cambrai in the past. Will you not advise him now? I would. my good man, retorted the Duchess, but my wise counsels would benefit no one now, seeing that you have been sent on a fool's errand. De Marmont laughed. Does Madame La Duchess mean to deny that 25 million francs belonging to the Emperor are hidden at this moment inside this

coach? I deny Monsieur de Marmont that any 25 million francs belong to the Emperor. I deny Monsieur de Marmont that any 25 million francs belong to the son of an impecunious Corsican attorney, and I also deny that any 25 million francs are in this coach at the present moment. That is exactly what I desire to ascertain, madame. Ascertained by all means then, quoth madame impatiently, the other thief ascertained the same thing an hour ago, and I must confess that he did so more profitably than you are like to do. The other thief, exclaimed de Marmont, greatly puzzled. It is, as Madame La Duchess has deign to tell you, here interposed the Compt Cooley, I have no objection to your knowing that I had intended to convey to his majesty the king, its rightful owner, a sum of money,

originally stolen by the Corsican usurper from France, but that an hour ago a party of armed thieves, just like yourself, attacked us, bound and gagged me and my men, ransacked my coach, and made off with the booty. And I thank God now, murmured Crystal involuntarily, that the money has fallen into the hands of a common highwayman, rather than in those of the scourge of mankind.

M.C. Lecomte, stammered de Marmont, who, still incredulous, yet vaguely alarmed, was nevertheless determined not to accept this extraordinary narrative with blind confidence. But M. Lecomte de Cambrai's dignity rose at last to the occasion. You choose to disbelieve me, monsieur, he asked quietly. De Marmont made no reply. Will my word of honor not suffice? My orders, Monsieur Le Compt, said de Marmont, gruffly, are that I bring back to my emperor, the money that is his.

I will not leave one stone unturned. Enough, Monsieur broke in the Compt, with calm dignity. We will alight now, if your soldiers will stand aside. And for the second time, on this eventful night, Madame La Duchess de Adjan and Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambrai, together with faithful Jean, were forced to alight from the coach and to stand by while the cushions of the carriage were being turned over by the light of a flickering lanthorn and every corner of the interior ransacked for the elusive treasure. There is nothing here, Mon Colonel, said a gruff voice out of the darkness,

after a while. A loud curse broke from de Marmont's lips. You are satisfied? Asked the comped coldly that I have told you the truth. Search the luggage in the boot, cried De Marmont savagely, without heeding him. Search the men on the box. Bring more light here. That money is somewhere in this coach, I'll swear. If I do not find it, I'll take everyone here back a prisoner to Grenoble. or he paused himself ashamed of what he had been about to say, or you will order your soldiers to lay hands upon our persons. Is that it?

Monsieur de Marmont broke in crystal coldly. He made no reply, for of a truth that had been his thought, foiled in his hope of rendering his beloved emperor so signal a service he had lost all sense of chivalry in this. overwhelming feeling of baffled rage. Crystal's cold challenge recalled him to himself, and now he felt ashamed of what he had just contemplated, ashamed too of what he had done. He hated the Comte. He hated all royalists and all enemies of the Emperor, but he hated the Comte doubly because of the insults which he, de Marmont, had had to endure

that evening at Brestelo. He had looked upon this expedition as a means of vengeance for those insults, a means too of showing his power and his worth before Crystal, and of winning her through that power which the emperor had given him, and through that worth which the emperor had recognized. But though he hated the Comte, he knew him to be absolutely incapable of telling a deliberate lie and absolutely incapable of bartering his word of honor for the sake of his own safety. Crystal's words brought this knowledge back to his mind, and now the desire seized him to prove himself as chivalrous as he was powerful. He was one of those men who are so absolutely ignorant of a woman's nature that they believe that a woman's love can be won by deeds.

as apart from personality, and that a woman's dislike and contempt can be changed into love. He loved Crystal more absolutely now than he had ever done in the days when he was practically her accepted suitor. His unbridled and capricious nature clung desperately to that, which he could not hold, and since he had felt that evening at Brestolo, that his political convictions had placed an insuperable barrier between himself and Crystal de Cambrai. He felt that no woman on earth could ever be quite so desirable. His mistake lay in this, that he believed that it was his political convictions alone, which had turned Crystal away from him.

He felt that he could have won her love through her submission once she was his wife, Now, he found that he would have to win her love first, and her wifely submission would only follow afterwards. Just now, though in the gloom, he could only see the vague outline of her graceful form, and only heard her voice as through a veil of darkness. He had the longing to prove himself at once worthy of her regard and deserving of her gratitude. Without replying, to her direct challenge, he made a vigorous effort to curb his rage and to master his disappointment. Then he gave a few brief commands to his sergeant, ordering him to repair the disorder inside the coach and to stop all further searching, both of the vehicle and of the men.

Finally, he said with calm dignity, Monsieur Lecomte, I must offer you my heart. humble apologies for the inconvenience to which you have been subjected. I humbly beg Madame La Duchess and Mademoiselle Crystal to accept these expressions of my profound regret. A soldier's life and a soldier's duty must be my excuse for the part I was forced to take in this untoward happening. Madame La Duchess, I pray you deign to re-enter your carriage. Monsieur Lecompt, if there is aught I can do for you, I pray you command me. Neither the Duchess nor the Compt, however, deigned to take the slightest notice of the abominable traitor and of his long tirade. Madame was shivering with cold and yawning with fatigue, and in her heart consigned the

young brute to everlasting torments. The Compt would have thought it beneath his dignity to accept any explanation from a follower of the Corsican usurper. Without a word, he was now helping his sister into the carriage. Gene, of course, hardly counted. She was dazed into semi-imbecility by the renewed terrors she had just gone through. For the moment, Victor felt that Crystal was isolated from the others. She stood a little to one side. He could only just see her, as the sergeant was holding up the lanthorn for Madame La Duchess to see her way into the coach. M. Lecomte went on to give a few directions to the coachman. Mademoiselle Crystal murmured Victor softly, and he made a step forward so that now she

could not move toward the carriage without brushing against him, but she made no reply. Mademoiselle Crystal, he said again, have you, not one single kind word for me? A kind word, she retorted almost involuntarily, after such an outrage. I am a soldier, he urged, and had to do my duty. You were a soldier once, Monsieur de Marmont, a soldier of the king. Now you are only a deserter. A soldier of the emperor, mademoiselle, of the man who led France to victory and to glory, and will do so again, now that he has come back into his own once more. You and I, Monsieur de Marmont, she said coldly, look at France from different points of view. This is neither the hour nor the place to discuss our respective sentiments.

I pray you, allow me to join my aunt in the carriage. I am cold and tired. and she will be anxious for me. Will you at least give me one word of encouragement, mademoiselle? He urged, as you say, our points of view are very different, but I am on the high road to fortune. The emperor is back in France.

The army flocks to his eagles as one man. He trusts me, and I shall rise to greatness under his wing. Mademoiselle, Crystal, you promised me your hand. I have not released you from that promise yet. I will come and claim it soon. Excitement seems to have turned your brain, Monsieur de Marmont, was all that Crystal said, and she walked straight past him to the carriage door. Victor smothered a curse. These aristoes were as arrogant as ever. What lesson had the revolution and the guillotine taught them? None. This girl who has

had spent her whole life in poverty and exile, and was like, after a brief interregnum, to return to exile and poverty again, was not a whit less proud than her kindred had been when they walked in their hundreds up the steps of the guillotine with a smile of lofty disdain upon their lips. Victor de Marmont was a son of the people, of those who had made the revolution, had fought the whole of Europe in order to establish their right to govern themselves as they thought best, and he hated all these aristos. The men who had fled from their country and abandoned it when she needed her son's help more than she had ever done before. The aristocrat was for him synonymous with the emigre, with the man who had raised a foreign army to fight

against France, who had brought the foreigner marching triumphantly into Paris. He hated the aristocrat, but he loved Crystal, the one desirable product of that old regime system, which he abhorred. But with him, a woman's love meant a woman's submission. He was more determined than ever, now to win her, but he wanted to win her through her humiliation and his triumph. Excitement had turned his brain. Well, so be it. Fear and depression would turn her heart and crush her pride. He made no further attempt to detain her. He had asked for a kind word, and she had given him withering scorn. Excitement had turned his brain. He was not even worthy of parley, not even worthy of a formal refusal. To his credit, be it said that the thought of immediate revenge did not enter his mind then. He might have subjected her then and there to deadly outrage. He might have had her personal effect searched, her person touched by the rough hands of his soldiers. But though his estimate of a woman's love was a low one,

it was not so base as to imagine that Crystal de Cambrai would ever forgive. so dastardly an insult. As she walked past him to the door, however, he said under his breath, remember, mademoiselle, that you and your family at this moment are absolutely in my power, and that it is only because of my regard for you that I let you all now depart from here in peace. Whether she heard or not, he could not say, certain it is that she made no reply, nor did she turn toward him at all. The light of the lanthorn lit up her delicate profile, pale and drawn, her tightly pressed lips, the look of utter contempt in her eyes,

which even the fitful shadow cast by her hair over her brows, could not altogether conceal. The comte had given what instructions he wished to Pierre. He stood by the carriage door, waiting for his daughter, No doubt he had heard what went on between her and de Marmont, and was content to leave her to deal what scorn was necessary for the humiliation of the traitor. He helped Crystal into the carriage and also the unfortunate Jean. Finally, he too followed and pulled the door, too, behind him.

Victor did not wait to see the coach make a start. He gave the order to remount. How far are we from Saint-Priest? He asked. Not eight kilometers, Mon-Colonel, was the reply. An avant then, Ventra Aterre, he commanded, as he swung himself into the saddle. The great high road between Grenoble and Lyons is very wide, and Pierre had no need to draw his horses to one side as de Marmont and his troop,

after much scrambling, champing of bits and clanking of metal, rode at a sharp trot past the coach and him. For some few moments, the sound of the horse's hoofs on the hard road kept the echoes of the night busy with their resonance. But soon that sound grew fainter and fainter still. After five minutes, it died away altogether. Mouser de Comte put his head out of the window. A. B. N. Pierre, he called, Why Don't We Start? The postillion cracked his whip. Pierre shouted to his horses. The heavy coach groaned and creaked, and was once more on its way. In the interior, no one spoke. Jean's terror had melted in a silent flow of tears. Lions was reached shortly before midnight. Mouser Lecomte's carriage had some difficulty in entering the

as by orders of Massour Lecombe de Artois, it had already been placed in a state of defense against the possible advance of the band of pirates from Corsica. The bridge of law Gilotier had been strongly barricaded, and it took Monsieur Lacompe de Cambrai some little time to establish his identity before the officer in command of the post allowed him to proceed on his way. The town was fairly full, owing to the presence of Massour Lecomte d'Artois, who had taken up his quarters at the Arch Episcopal Palace and of his staff who were scattered in various houses about the town. Nevertheless, Massaure Lecomte and his family were fortunate enough in obtaining comfortable accommodation at the Hotel Bourbon.

The party was very tired, and after a light supper, retired to bed. But not before Monsieur Le Compt de Cambrai had sent a special autographed message to Monseigneur, Lecombe de Artois, explaining to him under what tragic circumstances the sum of 25 million francs destined to reach his majesty the king had fallen into a common highwayman's hands, and begging that a posse of cavalry be sent out on the road after the marauders and be placed under the orders of Messor-Lay-Marquis de Saint-Genis, who would be on the lookout for their arrival. He begged that the posse should consist of not less than 30 men,

seeing that some armed followers of the Corsican brigand were also somewhere on the way. End of Chapter 4, Part 2. Chapter 5 of The Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orxie. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The Rivals. The weather did not improve as the night wore on. Soon a thin, cold drizzle added to the dreariness and to Marrars.

de St. Genesis' ever-growing discomfort. He had started off gaily enough, cheered by Crystal's warm look of encouragement, and comforted by the feeling of certainty that he would get even with that mysterious enemy who had so impudently thrown himself, athwart a plan which had service of the king for its sole object. Maurice had not exchanged confidences with Crystal since the adventure, but his ideas, without his knowing it, absolutely coincided with hers. He too was quite sure that no common footpad had engineered their daring attack. Positive knowledge of the money and its destination had been the fountain from which

had sprung the comedy of the masked highwayman and his little band of robbers. Maurice mentally reckoned that there must have been at least half a dozen of these bravos of the sort that in these times were easily enough hired in any big city to play any part from that of armed escort to nervous travelers to that of seeker of secret information. for the benefit of either political party. Loafer that hung round the wine shops in search of a means of earning a few days rations, discharged soldiers of the empire, some of them, whose loyalty to the restoration had been questioned from the first.

Maurice had no doubt that whatever motive had actuated, the originator of the bold plan to possess himself of 25 million francs. He had deliberately set to work to employ men of that type to help him in his task. It had all been very audacious, and Maris was bound to admit, very well carried out. As for the motive, he was never for a moment in doubt. It was a bona partist plot of that he felt sure, as well as of the fact that Victor de Marmont was the originator of it all. He probably had not taken any active part in the attack, but he had employed the men. Maris would have taken an oath on that.

The Comp de Cambrai must have let fall an unguarded hint in the course of his last interview with de Marmont at Brestolo, and when Victor went away disgraced and discomfited, he, no doubt, thought to take his revenge in the way most calculated to injure both the Comte and the royalist cause. Satisfied with this mental explanation of past events, St. Genis had written on in the darkness, his spirits, kept up with hopes and thoughts of a glaring counter-revenge. But his limbs were still stiff and bruised from the cramped position in which he had lain for so long. And presently, when the cold drizzle began to penetrate to his bones, his enthusiasm and confidence dwindled. The village seemed to

recede further and further into the distance. He thought when he had ridden through it earlier in the evening that it was not very far from the scene of the attack, a dozen kilometers perhaps. Now it seemed more like 30. He thought, too, that it was a village of some considerable size, 500 souls, or perhaps more. He had noticed, as he rode through it. He had noticed as he rode through it. He was a village of some considerable size, 500 souls, a well-illuminated one-storied house and the words debit divins and chambre's poor voyagers painted in bold characters above the front door but now he had ridden on and on along the dark road for what seemed endless hours unconscious of time save that it was dragging on leaden-footed and wearisome, and still no light on ahead to betray the presence of human habitations,

no distant church bells to mark the progress of the night. At last in desperation, Marie's Day St. Genis had thought of wrapping himself in his cloak and getting what rest he could by the roadside, for he was getting very tired and saddle sore. when on his left he perceived in the far distance glimmering through the mist two small lights like bright eyes shining in the darkness what kind of a way led up to those welcome lights marie's had of course no idea but they proclaimed at any rate the presence of human beings of a house of the warmth of fire and without hesitation the young man and turned his horse's head at right angles from the road. He had crossed a couple of plowed fields and an intervening ditch when in the distance to his right and behind him. He heard the sound of horses at a brisk trot going in the direction of lions. Maris drew rain for a moment and listened

until the sound came nearer. There must have been at least a skis. There must have been at least a score of mounted men, a military patrol sent out by Mouser Lecomte d'Artois, no doubt, and now on its way back to Lyons. Just for a second or two, the young man had thoughts of joining up with the party and asking their help or their escort. He even gave a vigorous shout, which, however, was lost in the clang and clatter of horses' hooves, and of a horse's hoofs, and of the accompanying jingle of metal. He turned his horse back the way he had come. But before he had recrossed one of the plowed fields,

the troop of mounted men, whatever they were, had passed by. And Maurice was left once more in solitude, shouting and calling in vain. There was nothing for it then but to turn back again, and to make his way as best he could toward those inviting lights. In any case, nothing could have been done in this pitch dark night against the highway thieves, and St. Genes had no fear that Monsieur Lacomte d'Artois would fail to send him help for his expedition against them on the morrow.

The lights on ahead were getting perceptibly nearer. Soon they detached themselves still more clearly in the gloom. Other lights appeared in the immediate neighborhood. Too few for a village thought Maris and grouped closely together, suggesting a main building surrounded by other smaller ones close by. Soon the whole outline of the house could be traced through the enveloping. darkness. Two of the windows were lighted from within, and an oil lamp flickering feebly was fixed in a recess just above the door. The welcome words, Chambres poor voyagers,

arrestered Briot proprietor, greeted Marisa's wearied eyes as he drew rain. Good luck was apparently attending him for thus picking his way across fields. he had evidently struck an out-of-the-way hostelry on some bridal path off the main road, which was probably a shortcut between Shamboree and Vienne. Be that as it may, he managed to dismount stiff as he was, and having tried the door and found it fastened, he hammered against it with his boot. A few moments later, the bolts were drawn, and an elderly man, in blue blouse and wide trousers, his sabots stuffed with straw, came shuffling out of the door.

Who's there? He called in a feeble, querulous voice. A traveler on horseback, replied Maurice. Come, petty pair, he added more impatiently, will you take my horse or call to one of your men? It is too late to take in travelers, muttered the old man. It is nearly midnight. It is nearly midnight. and everyone is a bed except me. Too late, more blue, exclaimed the young man, peremptorily. You surely are not thinking of refusing shelter to a traveler on a night like this. Why, how far is it to the nearest village? It is very late, reiterated the old man, plaintively, and my house is quite full.

There's a shakedown in the kitchen anyway, of, warrant and one for my horse somewhere in an outhouse, retorted Maurice, as without more ado, he suddenly threw the reins into the old man's hand and unceremoniously pushed him into the house. The man appeared to hesitate for a moment or two. He grumbled and muttered something, which Marise did not hear, and his shrewd eyes, the knowing eyes of a peasant, of the Dauphine took a rapid survey of the belated traveller's clothes, the expensive caped coat, the well-made boots, the fashionable hat, which showed up clearly now by the light from within, satisfied that there could be no risk in taking in so well-dressed a traveler,

feeling, moreover, that a good horse was always a hostage for the payment of the bill in the morning. The man now, without another word or look at his guest, turned his back on the house and led the horse away somewhere out into the darkness. Maris did not take the trouble to ascertain where he was under shelter. There was the remnant of a wood fire in the hearth at the corner, some benches along the walls. If he could not get a bed, he could certainly get a bed. He could certainly get rest and warmth for the night. He put down his hat, took off his coat, and kicked the smoldering log into a blaze. Then he drew a chair close to the fire and held his numbed feet and hands to the pleasing warmth. Thoughts of food and wine presented themselves too, now that he felt a little

less cold and stiff, and he awaited the old man's return with eagerness and impatience. The shuffling of wooden sabots outside the door was a pleasing sound. A moment or two later, the old man had come back and was busying himself with once more bolting his front door. Well, now, Per Brayotte, said Maurice cheerily, as I take it, you will. You are, are the proprietor of this abode of bliss. What about supper? Bread and cheese, if you like, muttered the man curtly. And a bottle of wine, of course. Yes, a bottle of wine. Well, be quick about it, Patty, Pierre. I didn't know how hungry I was till you talked of bread and cheese. Would you like some cold meat? queried the man indifferently. Of course I should. Have I not

said that I was hungry. You'll pay for it all right enough. I'll pay for the supper before I stick a fork into it, rejoined Maurice impatiently. But in heaven's name, hurry up, man, I am half dead with sleep as well as with hunger. The old man, a real peasant of the Dauphine, in his deliberate manner and shrewd instincts of caution, once more shuffled out. of the room, and St. Genus lapsed into a kind of pleasant torpor as the warmth of the fire gradually crept through his sinews and loosened all his limbs, while the anticipation of wine and food sent his wearied thoughts into a happy daydream. Ten minutes later, he was installed before a substantial supper, and worthy aristed briot,

was equally satisfied with the two pieces of silver, which St. Genes had readily tendered him. You said your house was full, Patty Pierre, said Maurice, after a while, when the edge of his hunger had somewhat worn off. I shouldn't have thought there were many travelers in this out-of-the-way place. The place is not out of the way, retorted the old man gruffly. The road is a a good one, and a shortcut between Vienne and Shamborey. We get plenty of travelers this way. Well, I did not strike the road, unfortunately. I saw your lights in the distance and cut across some fields. It was pretty rough in the dark, I can tell you. That's just what those other cavaliers said when they turned up here about an hour ago. A noisy crowd they were. I

had no room for them in my house, so they had to go. St. Genes at once put down his knife and fork. A noisy crowd of travelers, he exclaimed, who arrived here an hour ago. Parbleu rejoined the other, and all wanting beds, too. I had no room. I can only put up one or two travelers. I sent them on to Lavasaur's further along the road. only the wounded man i could not turn away he is up in our best bedroom a wounded man you have a wounded man here petty pierre oh it's not much of a wound explained the old man with unconscious irrelevance he himself calls it a mere scratch but my old woman took a fancy to him he is young and well-looking you understand And she is clever at bandages, too, so she has looked after him as if he were her own son. Mechanically, St. Genis had once more taken up his knife and fork, though of a truth, the last of his hunger had vanished. But these duffine peasants were suspicious and queer-tempered,

and already the young man's surprise had matured into a plan which he would. would not be able to carry through without the help of aristed Briott. Noisy cavaliers, he mused to himself a wounded man, wounded by the stray shot aimed at him by Crystal de Cambrai. Indeed, St. Genes had much ado to keep his excitement in check and to continue with a pretense at eating, while Briott watched him with stolid indifference. Patty Pierre, said the young man, at last,

with as much unconcern as he could affect. I have been thinking that you have unwittingly given me an excellent piece of news. I do believe that the man in your best bedroom upstairs is a friend of mine whom I was to have met at Lyons today and whose absence from our place of Trist had made me very anxious. I was imagining that all sorts of horrors had happened to him, for he is in the secret service of the king and exposed to every kind of danger. His being wounded in some skirmish, either with highway robbers or with a band of the Corsican's pirates,

would not surprise me in the least. And the fact that he had some half-dozen mounted men with him confirms me in my belief that indeed it is my friend who is lying upstairs, as he often has to have an escort in the exercise of his duties. At any rate, Patty Pierre, he concluded, as he rose from the table, by your leave, I'll go up and ascertained. While he rattled off these pretty proceeds of his own imagination, Marie's Day St. Genes kept a sharp watch on a wristed Briott's face, ready to note the slightest sign of suspicion should it creep into the old man's shrewd eyes. Breit, however, did not exhibit any violent interest in his guest's story,

and when the latter had finished speaking, he merely said, said, pointing to the remnants of food upon the table, I thought you said that you were hungry. So I was, Patty Pair, rejoined Maurice impatiently. So I was, but my hunger is not so great as it was, and before I eat another morsel, I must satisfy myself that it is my friend who is safe and well in your old woman's care. Oh, he is well enough. grunted Briott, and you can see him in the morning. That I cannot, for I shall have to leave here soon after dawn, and I could not get a wink of sleep whilst I am in such a state of uncertainty about my friend. But you can't go and wake him now. He is asleep for sure, and my old woman

wouldn't like him to be disturbed. After all the care she has given him, St. Genus, fretting with impatience, could have cursed aloud or shaken the obstinate old peasant roughly by the shoulders. I shouldn't wake him, he retorted, irritated beyond measure at the man's futile opposition. I'll go up on tiptoe, candle in hand. You shall show me the way to his room, and I'll just ascertain whether the wounded man is my friend or not, then I'll come down again quietly and finish my supper. Come, Patty, Pierre, I insist, he added more peremptorily, seeing that Briot, with the hesitancy peculiar to his kind, still made no movement to obey, but stood close by, scratching his scanty logs and looking puzzled and anxious. Fortunately for him, Maurice understood the temperament of

these peasants of the Dauphine. He knew that with their curious hesitancy and inherent suspiciousness, it was always the easiest to make up their minds for them. So now, since he was absolutely determined to come to grips with that abominable thief upstairs, before the night was many minutes older. He ceased to parley with Briott. A candle stood close to his hand on the table. A bit of kindling wood lay in a heap in one corner. With the help of the one, he lighted the other. Then candle in hand, he walked up to the door. Show me the way, Petty Pierre, he said. And Aristid Briot with a shrug of the shoulders, which implied that he there and then put away from him any responsibility for what might or might not occur after this,

and without further comment led the way upstairs. On the upper landing, at the top of the stairs, Briott paused. He pointed to a door at the end of the narrow corridor and said, curtly, that's his room. I thank you, Patty Pierre, whispered St. Genis, in response. Don't wait for me. I'll be back directly. He is not yet in bed, was Breyat's dry comment. A thin streak of light showed underneath the door. As St. Genus walked rapidly toward it, he wondered if the door would be locked. That certainly was a contingency which had not occurred to him. His design was to surprise a wounded and helpless thief in his sleep,

and to force him then and there to give up the stolen money before he had time to call for help. But the miscreant was evidently on the watch. Briott still lingered on the top of the stairs. There were other people sleeping in the house, and St. Genes suddenly realized that his purpose would not be quite so easy of execution as he had hot-headedly supposed. But the end in view was great, and St. Genus was not a man easily deterred from a set purpose.

There was the royalist cause to aid, and Crystal to be won, if he were successful. He knocked resolutely at the door, then tried the latch. The door was locked, but even as the young man hesitated for a moment, Wondering what he would do next, a firm step resounded on the floor, on the other side of the partition, and the next moment the door was opened from within, and a peremptory voice issued the usual challenge. Who goes there? A tall figure appeared as a massive silhouette under the lintel. St. Genus had the candle in his hand. He dropped it in his astonishment.

Mr. Clifford, he exclaimed, At sight of St. Genis, the Englishman, whose right arm was in a sling, had made a quick, instinctive movement back into the room. But equally quickly, Maurice had forestalled him by placing his foot across the threshold. Then he turned back to Aristide Briot. That's all right, petty, Pierre, he called out airily. it is indeed my friend just as I thought I'm going to stay and have a little chat with him. Don't wait up for me. When he is tired of my company, I'll go back to the parlor and make myself happy

in front of the fire. Good night. As Clifford no longer stood in the doorway, St. Janus walked straight into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving good old arrested to draw what conclusions he chose from the eccentric behavior of his nocturnal visitors. With a rapid and wrathful gaze, St. Genus at once took stock of everything in the room. A sigh of satisfaction rose to his lips. At any rate, the rogue could not deny his guilt. There hanging on a peg was the caped coat, which he had worn, and there on the table were two damning proofs of his villainy, a pair of pistols, and a black mask. The whole situation puzzled him more than he could say. Certainly, after the first shock of surprise, he had felt his wrath growing hotter and hotter every moment.

The other man's cool assurance helped further to irritate his nerves, and to make him lose that self-control that would have been of priceless value in this unlooked-for situation. Seeing that Maurice Day St. Janice was absolutely speechless with surprise as well as with anger, they're crept into Clifford's deep-set gray eyes, a strange look of amusement, as if the humor of his present position was more obvious than its shame and what, he asked pleasantly, has procured me the honor at this late hour of a visit from Monsieur le Marquis de Saint-Generes. His words broke the spell. There was no longer any mystery in the situation. The condemnatory pieces of evidence were there. Clifford's connection with

De Marmont was well known. The plot had become obvious. Here was an English. Here was an English. adventurer, an alien spy who had obviously been paid to do this dirty work for the usurper. And as Maurice now concluded airily, he must be made to give up the money which he had stolen before he be handed over to the military authorities at Lyons and shot as a spy or a thief. Maurice didn't care which. The whole thing was turning. out far simpler and easier than he had dared to hope. You know quite well why I am here, he now said roughly, of a truth, for the moment I was taken by surprise, for I had not thought that a man who had been honored by the friendship of Monsieur Lecombe de Cambrai and of his family

was a thief as well as a spy. And now, said Clifford, still smiling and apparently quite unperturbed, that you have been enlightened on this subject to your own satisfaction. May I ask what you intend to do? Force you to give up what you have stolen, you impudent thief, retorted the other savagely. And how are you proposing to do that, Messore de Saint-Gennais? asked the Englishman with perfect equanimity. Like this, cried Maurice, whose exasperation and fury had increased every moment as the other man's assurance waxed more insolent and more cool. Like this, he cried again as he sprang at his enemy's throat.

A past master in the art of self-defense, Clifford, despite his wounded arm, was ready for the attack. With his left on guard, he not only received the brunt of the onslaught, but parried it most effectually with a quick blow against his assailant's jaw. St. Genus, stunned by this forcible contact with a set of exceedingly hard knuckles, fell back a step or two. His foot struck against some object on the floor. He lost his balance, and measured his length backwards across the bed. You abominable thief! You, he cried, choking with rage and with discomfiture

as he tried to struggle to his feet. But this he at once found that he could not do, seeing that a pair of firm and muscular knees were gripping and imprisoning his legs, even while that same all-powerful left hand, with the hard knuckles, had an unpleasant hold on his throat. I should have tried some other method, Monsieur de Saint-Genis, had I been in your shoes,

came in irritatingly sarcastic accents from his calm antagonist. Indeed, the insolent rogue did not appear in the least, overwhelmed by the enormity of his crime, or by the disgrace of being so ignominious, found out from his precarious position across the bed, St. Genus had a good view of the rascals' finely knit figure of his earnest face, now softened by a smile full of kindly humor and good-natured contempt. An impartial observer viewing the situation would certainly have thought that here was an impudent villain vanquished and lying on his back, whilst being admonished for his crimes

by a just man who had might as well as right on his side. Let me go, you confounded thief, St. Janice cried, as soon as the unpleasant grip on his throat had momentarily relaxed. You a cursed spy. You. easy, easy, my young friend, said the other calmly. You have called me a thief quite often enough to satisfy your rage, and further epithets might upset my temper. Let go my throat. I will in a moment or two, as soon as I have made up my mind what I am going to do with you, my impetuous young friend, whether I shall trust you like a fowl and put you in charge of our worthy host as guilty of

assaulting one of his guests, or whether I shall do you some trifling injury to punish you for trying to do me a grave one. Right is on my side, said St. Janus doggedly. I do not care what you do to me. Right is apparently on your side, my friend. not deny it. Therefore, I still hesitate. Like a rogue and a vagabond at dead of night, you attacked and robbed those who have never shown you anything but kindness, until the hour when they turned me out of their house, like a dishonest lackey,

without allowing me a word of explanation. Then this is your idea of vengeance, is it, Mr. Clifford? Yes, Monsieur de St. Genis, it is, but not quite in the manner that you suppose. I am going to set you free now in order to set your mind at rest, but let me warn you that I shall be just as much on the alert against another attack from you as ever I was before, and that I could ward off two or even three assailants with my left arm and knee as easily as I warded off one. It is a way we have in England. He relaxed his hold on Marisa's legs and throat, and the young man, fretting and fuming, wild with impotent wrath and with mortification, struggled to his feet. Are you proposing to give me some explanation to mitigate your crime? He said roughly.

If so, let me tell you that I will accept none, putting the question aside of your abominable theft, you have committed an outrage against people whom I honor and against the woman whom I love. Nor do I propose to give you any explanation, Moseur D.Sor D.Sor D.Sor, day St. Janice retorted Clifford, who still spoke quite quietly and evenly. But for the sake of your own peace of mind, which you will, I hope, communicate to the people whom you honor, I will tell you a few simple facts. Neither of the men sat down. They stood facing one another now across the table, whereon stood a couple of tallow candles, which threw fitful yellow lights on their faces, so different, so strangely contrasted, young and well-looking both, both strongly moved by passion,

yet one entirely self-controlled, while in the other's eyes that passion glowed fierce and resentful. I listen, said St. Janice curtly, and Clifford began after a slight pause, at the time that you fell upon me with such ill-considered vigor, Monsieur de St. Genis, he said, did you know that but for my abominable outrage upon the persons whom you honor, the money which they would gladly have guarded with their life would have fallen into the hands of Bonaparte's agents in theirs or yours, what matters, retorted St. Jenna savagely,

since His Majesty is deprived of it now. That is where you are mistaken, my young friend, said the other quietly. His Majesty is more sure of getting the money now than he was when M. LaComp de Cambrai, with his family and yourself, started on that chaotic, if ill-considered Aaron this morning. St. Genes frowned in puzzlement. I don't understand you. he said curtly. Isn't it simple enough? You and your friends credited me with friendship for de Marmont. He is hot-headed

and impetuous, and words rush out of his mouth that he should keep to himself. I knew from himself that Bonaparte had charged him to recover the 25 millions, which Monsieur Le Prefet-Fourier had placed in the Comte de Cambrai's charge. Why did you not warn the Comte then? queried St. Genus, who still mistrustful, glowered at his antagonist. Would he have listened to me, thank you? asked the other with a quiet smile. Remember, he had turned me out of his house two nights before, without a word of courtesy or regret, on the mere suspicion of my intercourse with de Marmont. Were you two fool with your own rage to notice what happened then? Mademoiselle Crystal drew away her skirts from me as if I were a leper.

What credence would they have given my words? Would the Comte even have admitted me into his presence? And so you planned this robbery. You stammered St. Genus, whose astonishment and puzzlement were rendering him as speechless as his rage had done. I'll not believe it, he continued more firmly. You are fooling me now that I have found you out. Why should I do that? You are in my hands, and not I in yours. Bonaparte is victorious at Grenoble. I could take the money to him and earn his gratitude, or use the money for mine own ends. What have I to fear,

from you. What cause to fool you? Your opinion of me? M. Sour Lecompt's contempt or goodwill? Ba, after tonight, are we likely to meet again? St. Genus said nothing in reply of a truth. There was nothing that he could say. The Englishman's whole attitude bore the impress of truth, Even through that still seething wrath, which refused to be appeased, St. Genus felt that the other was speaking the truth. His mind now was in turmoil of wonderment. This man who stood here before him had done something which he, St. Genus, could not comprehend. Vaguely, he realized that beneath the man's actions, there still lay a yet deeper foundation

of dignity and of heroism, and one which perhaps would never be wholly fathomed. It was Clifford, who at last broke the silence between them. You, Monsieur de Saint-Generes, he said lightly, would under like circumstances have acted just as I did, I am sure. The whole idea was so easy of execution, half a dozen loafers to aid me, the part of highwayman to play, an old man, and two or three defenseless women. My part was not heroic, I admit. He added with a smile, but it has served its purpose. The money is safe in my keeping now. Within a few days, His Majesty, the King of France, shall have it, and all those who strive to serve him

loyally can rest satisfied. I confess I don't understand you. said St. Janus, as he seemed to shake himself free from some unexplainable spell that held him. You have rendered us and the legitimate cause of France a signal service. Why did you do it? You forget, Monsieur de Saint-Generes, that the legitimate cause of France is England's cause as well. Are you a servant of your country, then? I thought you were a tradesman engaged in buying gloves. Clifford smiled. So I am, he said,

but even a tradesman may serve his country if he has the opportunity. I hope that your country will be duly grateful, said Maurice, with a sigh. I know that every royalist in France would thank you if they knew. By your leave, Monsieur de de. St. Genes, no one in France need know anything but what you choose to tell them. You mean that except for reassuring Monsieur Lecombe de Cambrai and Mademoiselle Crystal, there is no reason that they should ever know what passed between us in this room tonight. But if the king is to have the money, he will never know from me from whence it comes. He will wish to know. Come, Monsieur de Saint-Genis,

broken Clifford, with a slight hint of impatience. It is for me to tell you that Great Britain has more than one agent in France these days, that the money will reach His Majesty, the King, ultimately through the hands of his foreign minister, Messore Lacombe, de Jacour, and that my name will never appear in connection with the matter. I am a mere servant of Great Britain, doing my duty where I can, nothing more. You mean that you are in the British Secret Service? No, well, I don't profess to understand you English people, and you seem to me more incomprehensible than any I have known.

not that I ever believed that you were a mere tradesman, but what shall I say to Mouser Lacomte de Cambrai? He added, after a slight pause, during which a new and strange train of thought altered the expression of wonderment on his face to one that was undefinable, almost furtive, certainly undecided. All that you need say to Moseur Lecompt replied Clifford, with a slight tone of impatience, is that you are personally satisfied that the money

will reach His Majesty's hand safely, and in due course, at least I presume that you are satisfied, Monsieur de Saint-Genis, he continued vaguely wondering what was going on in the young Frenchman's brain. Yes, yes, of course, I am satisfied, murmured the other. But what? Mademoiselle Crystal would want to know something more than that. She will ask me questions. She will insist. I had promised her to get the money back myself. She will expect an explanation. She, he continued to murmur these short, jerky sentences, almost inaudibly, avoiding the while to meet the inquiring and puzzled. gaze of the Englishman. When he paused, still murmuring, but quite inaudibly now, Clifford made no comment, and once more there fell a silence over the narrow room. The candles flickered feebly, and Bobby picked up the metal snuffers from the table, and with a steady and deliberate hand set to work to trim the wicks. So absorbed did he seem in this occupation,

that he took no notice of St. Genus, who, with arms crossed in front of him, was pacing up and down the narrow room, a heavy frown between his deep-set eyes. Somewhere in the house down below, an old-fashioned clock had just struck two. Clifford looked up from his absorbing task. It is late, he remarked casually, shall we say good-night, Monsieur de Saint-Genis? The sound of the Englishman's voice seemed to startle Maris out of his reverie. He pulled himself together, walked firmly up to the table, and resting his hand upon it. He faced the other man with a sudden gaze made up partly of suddenly conceived resolve and partly of lingering shame-facedness.

Mr. Clifford, he began abruptly, yes, have you any call? cause to hate me. Why no, replied Clifford, with his habitual, good-humored smile. Why should I have? Have you any cause to hate Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambrey? Certainly not. You have no desire, insisted Maris, to be revenged on her for the slight which she put upon you the other night. His voice had grown more steady and his look more determined as he put, these rapid questions to Clifford, whose expressive face showed no sign of any feeling in response, save that of complete and indifferent puzzlement. I have no desire with regard to Mademoiselle de Cambre, replied Bobby quietly, save that of serving her, if it be in my power. You can serve

her, sir, retorted Marys firmly, and that right nobly. You can render the whole of her future life happy beyond what she herself has ever dared to hope. How? Maris paused once more with a gesture habitual to him. He crossed his arms over his chest and resumed his restless march up and down the narrow room. Then again he stood still and again faced the Englishman. his dark inquiring eyes seeming to probe the latter's deepest thoughts. Did you know, Mr. Clifford, he asked slowly, that Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambre honors me with her love? Yes, I knew that, replied the other quietly. And I love her with my heart

and soul, continued Mariez impetuously. Oh, I cannot tell you what we have suffered. She and I, when the exigencies of her position and the will of her father parted us seemingly forever, her heart was broken, and so was mine. And I endured the tortures of hell when I realized at last that she was lost to me forever, and that her exquisite person, her beautiful soul, were destined for the delight of that low-born traitor, Victor de Marmont, he drew breath, for he had half exhausted himself with the volubility and vehemence of his diction. Also, he seemed to be waiting for some encouragement from Clifford, who, however, gave him none,

but sat unmoved and apparently supremely indifferent, while a suffering heart was pouring out its wails of agony into his unresponsive ear. The reason resumed St. Genis somewhat more calmly why Monsieur Lecombe de Cambre was opposed to our union was purely a financial one. Our families are of equal distinction and antiquity, but alas, our fortunes are also of equal precariousness. We, sir, of the old nobles, gave up our all in order to follow our king into exile. Victor de Marmont was rich. His fortune could have repurchased the ancient Cambrai estates, and restored to that honored name all the brilliance which it had sacrificed for its principles. Still Clifford remained irritatingly silent, and St. Genes asked him somewhat tartly, I trust I am making myself clear, sir. Perfectly so far, replied the other quietly, but I am afraid I don't quite see how you propose that I could serve Mademoiselle Crystal in all this. You can, with one word, one generous action, sir, put me in a position to claim

Crystal as my wife and give her that happiness which she craves for and which is rightly her due. A slight lifting of the eyebrows was Clifford's only comment. Mr. Clifford now said Maurice, with the obvious firm resolve to end his own hesitancy at last, you say yourself that by taking this money to his majesty, or rather to his minister, you individually will get neither glory nor even gratitude. Your name will not appear in the transaction at all. I am quoting your own words, remember? That is so, is it not? It is so, certainly. But, sir, if a Frenchman, a royalist were able to render his king, so signal a service he would not only gain gratitude,

but recognition and glory. A man who was poor and obscure would at once become rich and distinguished, and in a position to marry the woman he loved, concluded Bobby, smiling. Then, as Maurice said nothing, but continued to regard him with glowing, anxious eyes, he added, smiling not altogether kindly this time, I think I understand, Masora de St. Genis. And what do you say? Query the other excitedly. Let me make the situation clear first, as I understand it. Masur continued Bobby dryly. You are, and I mistake not, suggesting at the present moment that I should hand over the 25 millions to you in order that you should take them yourself to the king in Paris, and by this act, obtain not only favors from him, but probably a goodly share of the money,

which you, presumably, will have forced some unknown. highwaymen to give up to you. Is that it? It was not money for myself I thought of, sir, murmured St. Genis somewhat shamefacedly. No, no, of course not, rejoined Clifford with a tone of sarcasm quite foreign to his usual, easygoing good nature. You were thinking of the king's favors and of a future of distinction and glory. I was thinking chiefly of crystal. I was thinking chiefly of Crystal, sir, said the other haughtily. Quite so, you were thinking of winning Mademoiselle Crystal by a subterfuge. An innocent one, sir, you will admit, I should not be robbing you in any way, and remember that it is only Crystal's hand that is denied me. Her love I have already won.

A look of pain, quickly suppressed and easily hidden, from the the other's self-absorbed gaze crossed the Englishman's earnest face. I do remember that, Massor, he said, else I certainly would never lend a hand in the subterfuge. You will do it, then? queried the other eagerly. I have not said so. Ah, but you will, pleaded Maurice hotly. Sir, the eternal gratitude of two faithful hearts would be yours always, for Christ. will know it all once we are married. I promise you that she will. And in the midst of her happiness, she will find time to bless your generosity and your selflessness whilst I, enough, I beg of you, M. S. St. Genis broke in Clifford now with angry impatience. Believe me, I do not hug myself

with any thought of my own virtues, nor do I desire any gratitude from you. If I hand over the money to you, it is sorely against my better judgment and distinctly against my duty. But since that duty chiefly lies in being assured that the King of France will receive the money safely, why then by handing it over to you, I have that assurance. my conscience will rest at comparative ease. You shall have the money, sir, and you shall marry Mademoiselle Crystal on the strength of the king's gratitude towards you, and Mademoiselle Crystal will be happy if you keep silence over this transaction. But for God's sake, let's say no more

about it, for of a truth you and I are playing but a sorry role this night. A sorry role, protested the other. Yes, a sorry role. Are you not deceiving a woman? Am I not running counter to my duty? I but deceive Crystal temporarily. I love her and only deceive in order to win her. The end justifies the means.

Nor do you, in my opinion, run counter to your duty. But Clifford interrupted him roughly. I pray you, sir, make no comment on mine actions. My own silent comments on these are hard enough to bear. Your eulogies would raise bounds to my patience. Whereupon he walked quickly up to the bed, and from under the mattress extricated five leather wallets which he threw one by one upon the table. Here is the king's money, he said curtly, you could never have taken it. from me by force, but I give it over to you willingly now. If within a week from now, I hear that

the king has not received it, I will proclaim you a liar and a thief. Sir, you dare. Nay, will not quarrel. I don't want to do you any hurt. You know from experience that I could kill you or wring your neck as easily as you could kill a child. But Mademoiselle Crystal's love is like a protecting shield all round you, so I'll not touch you again. But don't ask me to measure my words, for that is beyond my power. Take the money, Massaire de Saint-Genis, and earn not only the king's gratitude, but also Mademoiselle Crystals, which is far better worth having. And now I pray you, leave me to rest. You must be tired, too, and our mutual company has become irksome to us both. He turned his back on St. Genesis and sat down at the table, drawing paper, pen,

and inkhorn toward him, and with clumsy left hand, began laboriously to form written characters as if St. Genesis' presence or departure no longer concerned. him. An importunate beggar could not have been more humiliatingly dismissed. St. Genus had flushed to the very roots of his hair. He would have given much to be able to chastise the insolent Englishman then and there. But the latter had not boasted when he said that he could ring Marisa's neck as easily with his left hand as with his right. And Maurice within his heart was bound to own that the boast was no idle one.

He knew that in a hand-to-hand fight, he was no match for that heavy-framed, hard-fisted product of a fog-ridden land. He could not trust himself to speak anymore, lest another word would cause prudence to ye. to exasperation, another moment of hesitation, a shrug of the shoulders, perhaps a muttered curse or two, and St. Genis picked up one by one the wallets from the table. Clifford never looked up while he did so. He continued to form awkward, illegible characters upon the paper before him,

as if his very life depended on being able to write with his left hand. The next moment, St. Genes had walked rapidly out of the room. Bobby left off writing, threw down his pen, and resting his elbow upon the table, and his head in his hand. He remained silent and motionless, while St. Genesis's quick and firm footsteps echoed first along the corridor, then down the creaking stairs, and finally on the floor below, after which there came the sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the dragging of a chair across a wooden floor, and nothing more.

All was still in the house at last. The old-fashioned clock downstairs struck half-past two. With a smothered cry of angry contempt, Clifford seized on the papers that lay slid, scattered on the table and crushed them up in his hand with a gesture of passionate wrath. Then he strode up to the window, threw open the rickety casement, and let the pure cold air of night pour into the room and dissipate the atmosphere of cowardice, of falsehood, and of unworthy love that still seemed to hang there, where Massour-Lay-Marquis de Saint-Genis had

basely bargained for his own ends and outraged the very name of love by planning base deeds in its name. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The Crime Victor de Marmont had spent that same night in wearisome agitation. His mortification and disappointment would not allow him to rest. He had brought his squad of cavalry up as far as St. Priest, which lies a little off the main road, about halfway between lions and the scene of de Marmont's late discomfiture. Here, he and his men had spent the night only to make a fresh start early the next morning,

back for Grenoble, seeing that Monsieur Lecomte d'Artois, with 30, or 40,000 troops, was even now at Lyons. When an hour after leaving St. Priest, the little troop came upon a solitary horseman, riding a heavy carriage horse with a postilion's bridle, de Marmont at first had no other thought, save that of malicious pleasure. At recognizing the man whom just now he hated more cordially than any other man in the world, M. de St. Genis, for indeed it was he, was peremptorily challenged and questioned, and his wrath and impotent attempts at arrogance greatly delighted de Marmont. To make oneself actively unpleasant to arrival is apt to be a very pleasurable sensation. Victor had an exceedingly disagreeable half-hour to avenge and to declare St. Genis,

a prisoner of war, to order his removal to Grenoble, pending the Emperor. to command him to be silent when he desired to speak was so much soothing balsam spread upon the wounds which his own pride had suffered at Brestolo last Sunday Eve. It was not until a casual remark from the sergeant under his command caused him to notice the bulging pockets of St. Genesis Code that Victor thought to give the order to search the prisoner. The latter entered a vigorous protest. He fought and he threatened. He promised de Marmont the hangman's rope and his men terrible reprisals. But of course, he was fighting a losing battle. He was alone against five and his first attempt at getting hold of the pistols in his belt was met with a threat of summary execution.

He was dragged out of the saddle. His arms were forced behind his back, while rough hands turned out the precious contents of his coat pockets. All that he could do was to curse fate, which had brought these pirates on his way, and his own short-sightedness and impatience in not waiting for the armed patrol, which undoubtedly would have been sent out to him from Lyons in response to M. Lecomte de Cambrai's request. Now, he had the deadly chagrin and bitter disappointment of seeing the money which he had rested from Clifford last night at the price of so much humiliations.

transferred to the pockets of a real thief and spolieter who would either keep it for himself or what in the enthusiastic royalist's eyes would be even worse, place it at the service of the Corsican usurper. He could hardly believe in the reality of his ill luck so appalling was it. In one moment, he saw all the hopes of which he had. had dreamed last night, fly beyond recall. He had lost Crystal more effectually, more completely than he had ever done before. If the Englishman ever spoke of what had occurred last night, if Crystal ever knew that he had been fool enough to lose the treasure which had been in his possession for a few hours, her contempt would crush the love which she had been.

for him, nor would the Comp de Cambrai ever relent. De Marmont's triumph, too, was hard to bear. His clumsy irony was terribly galling. Would Monsieur Le Marquis de Saint-Generes care to continue his journey to lions now? Would he not prefer to go to Grenoble? St. Genes bit his tongue with the determination to remain silent. Monsieur de Saint-Genis is free to go whither he chooses. The permission was not even welcome. Maurice would as leave be taken prisoner and dragged back to Grenoble as face crystal with the story of his failure.

Quite mechanically, he remounted and pulled his horse to one side, while de Marmont ordered his little squad to form once more, and after the brief word of command and a final sarcastic farewell, galloped off up the road back toward lions at the head of his men, not waiting to see if St. Genus came his way to or not. The latter, with wearied aching eyes, gazed after the fast disappearing troop, until they became a mere speck on the long, straight road, and the discerate road, and the distant morning mist finally swallowed them up. Then he too turned his horse's head in the same direction back toward lions once more, and allowing the reins to hang loosely in his hand,

and letting his horse pick its own slow way along the road, he gave himself over to the gloominess of his own thoughts. He too had some difficulty in his own. entering the town. M. La Duke de Orleans, cousin of the king, had just arrived to support Monsieur Lacombe de Artois, and together these two royal princes had framed and posted up a proclamation to the brave lionese of the National Guard. The whole city was in a turmoil for Monsieur Le Duke de Orleans, who was nothing, if not practical, had at once declared that there was not the slightest chance of a successful defense of lions,

and that by far the best thing to do would be to withdraw the troops while they were still loyal. M. Lacomte d'Artois protested. At any rate, he wouldn't do anything so drastic till after the arrival of Marshall McDonald, to whom he had sent an urgent courier the day before enjoining him to come to lions without delay. In the meantime, he and his royal cousin did all they could to kindle, or at any rate, to keep up the loyalty of the troops. But defection was already in the air. Here and there, the men had been seen to throw their white cockades into the mud, and more than one cry of Viva la Emperor had risen even while Massor himself was reviewing the National Guard on the Place Belacore. The bridge of La Guilotier was stoutly barricaded, but as St. Genes waited out in the open road,

while his name was being taken to the officer in command, he saw crowds of people standing or walking up and down on the opposite bank of the river. They were waiting for the emperor, the news of whose approach was filling the townspeople with glee. Heart sick and wretched St. Genus, after several hours of weary waiting, did ultimately obtain permission to enter the city by the ferry on the south side of the city. Once inside Lyons, he had no difficulty in ascertaining where such a distinguished gentleman, as Monsieur Lecomte de Cambre had put up for the night, and he promptly made his way to the Hotel Bourbon. His mind at this stage, still a complete blank as to how he would explain his discomfiture to the Comte and to Crystal. In the present state of Monsieur Lecomte de Artois's difficulties, the money would have been thrice welcome,

and St. Genes felt the load of failure weighing thrice as heavily on his soul, and dreaded the reproaches, mute or outspoken, which he knew awaited him. If only he could have thought of something, something plausible, and not too inglorious. There was, of course, the possibility that he had failed to come upon the track of the thieves at all. But then he had no business to come back so soon, and he didn't want to come back, only that there was always the likelihood of the Englishman, speaking of what had occurred,

not necessarily with evil intent, but some words of his. If within a week I hear that the king of France has not received this money, I will proclaim you, a liar and a thief, rang unpleasantly in St. Genesis' ears. The young man's mind, I repeat, was at this point still a blank as to what explanation he would give to the comp to Cambrai of his own miserable failure. He was returning after an ardent promise to overtake the thief and to force him to give up the money. without apparently having made any effort in that direction,

or having made the effort failing signally and ignominiously, a foolish and unheroic position in either case. To tell the whole unvarnished truth, his interview with Clifford and his thoughtlessness in wandering along the road all alone, laden with 25 million francs, not waiting for the arrival of, of Monsieur Lecomte de Artois' patrol was unthinkable.

Then what? St. Genes, determined not to tell the truth, found it a difficult task to concoct a story that would be plausible, and at the same time redound to his credit. His disappointment was so bitter now. His hopes of winning crystal and glory had been so bright that he found it quite impovered. to go back to the hard facts of life, to his own poverty, and the unattainableness of

Crystal de Cambrai, without making a great effort to win back what Victor de Marmont had just rested from him. Through the whirl of his thoughts, too, there was a vague sense of resentment against Clifford, coupled with an equally vague sense of fear, he, Maris, might easily keep silent over the transaction of last night, but Clifford might not feel inclined to do so. He would want to know sooner or later what had become of the money. Had he not uttered a threat which made Maris's cheeks even now flush with wrath and shame. Certain words. Certain words. words and gestures of the Englishman had stood out before Marisa's mind in a way that had stirred up those latent jealousies which always lurk in the heart of an unsuccessful war. Clifford had been

generous, blind to his own interests, ready to sacrifice what recognition he had earned. He had spared his assailant and agreed to an unworthy subterfuge. and St. Genes's tormented brain began to wonder why he had done all this. Was it for love of Crystal de Cambrai? St. Genes would not allow himself to answer that question, for he felt that if he did, he would hate that hard-fisted Englishman more thoroughly than he had ever hated any man before, not accepting De Marmont. De Marmont was an evil, and vile traitor, who never could cross Crystal's path of life again. But not so, the Englishman, who had planned to serve her, and who would have succeeded so magnificently, but for his,

Marisa's interference. If this explanation of Clifford's strangely magnanimous conduct was the true one, then indeed St. Genis felt that he would have everything to fear. from him. For indeed, it was so very unlikely that the Englishman was throughout acting in collusion with Victor de Marmont, who was known to be his friend. Was it so very unlikely that, seeing himself unmasked, he had found a sure and rapid way of allowing the money to pass through St. Genesis' hands into those of de Marmont, and at the same time, hopelessly humiliating and discrediting his rival in the affections of Mademoiselle de Cambrai. That the suggestion of handing the money over to him had come originally from Maurice de Saint-Gena's himself, the young man did not trouble

himself to remember. The more he thought this new explanation of past events over, the more plausible did it seem, and the more likely of acceptance by Monsieur Lecomte de Cambre and by Crystal, and St. Genes at last saw his way to appearing before them, not only zealous, but heroic, even if unfortunate, and it was with a much lightened heart that he finally drew rain outside the Hotel Bourbon. Monsieur Lecompt de Cambrai, it seems, was staying at the hotel for a few days, so the proprietor informed Monsieur de Saint-Genis. Monsieur Lecompt had gone out, but Madame La Duchess de Agne was upstairs with Mademoiselle

de Cambrai. With somewhat uncertain step, St. Genes followed the obsequious proprietor, who had insisted on conducting Moseau's. lay marquis to the ladies' apartments himself. They occupied a suite of rooms on the first floor, and after a timid knock at the door, it was opened by Jean from within, and Maurice found himself in the presence of Crystal and of the Duchess, and obliged at once to enter upon the explanation, which, with their first cry of surprise, they already asked of him, Well, exclaimed Crystal eagerly, what news of the money?

Murmured Maurice vaguely, who, above all things, was anxious to gain time. Yes, the king's money rejoined the girl with slight impatience. Have you tracked the thieves? Do you know where they are? Is there any hope of catching them? None, I am afraid, he replied firmly. Crystal gave a cry of bitter disappointment, and reproach. Then Maris, she exclaimed almost involuntarily, why are you here? And Madame

La Duchess, folding her mittened hands before her, seemed mutely to be asking the same question. But did you come upon the thieves at all? continued Crystal, with eager volubility. Where did they go to for the night? You must have come on some traces of their passage. Oh, she added vehemently, You ought not to have deserted your post like this. What could I do? he murmured. I was all alone, against so many. You said that you would get on the track of the thieves, she urged,

and Father told you that he would speak with M. Lecombe de Artois as soon as possible. Missor has promised that an armed patrol would be sent out to you, and would be on the lookout for you on the road. An armed patrol would be no use. I came back on purpose to stop one being sent. But why, in heaven's name, exclaimed the Duchess, because a troop of deserters with that traitor Victor de Marmont

is scouring the road. And we know that, said Crystal. We were stopped by them last night after you left us. they were after the money for the usurper who had sent them, and I thanked God that 25 millions had enriched a common thief, rather than the Corsican brigand. Surely Maurice said the Duchess, with her usual tartness, you were not fool enough to allow the king's money to fall into that abominable de Marmont's hands.

How could I help it? Now exclaimed the young man, as if driven to the extremity of despair. The whole thing was a huge plot beyond one man's power to cope with. I tracked the thieves. He continued with the Hemmins, as eager as crystals. I tracked them to a lonely hostelry off the beaten track at dead of night, a den of cutthroats and conspirators. I tracked the thief to his lair,

and forced him to give the money up to me. You forced him? Oh, how splendid, cried Crystal. But then, ah, then, there was the hideousness of the plot. The thief, feeling himself unmasked, gave up his stolen booty. I forced him to his knees, and five wallets containing 25 million francs were safely in my pockets at last. You forced him, how splendid, reiterated Crystal, whose glowing eyes were fixed upon Maris, with all the admiration which she felt. Yes, that money was in my pocket for the rest of the happy night,

but the abominable thief knew well that his friend, Victor de Marmont, was on the road with five and twenty armed deserters in the pay of the Corsican brigand. Hardly had I left the hostelry and found my way back to the main road when I was surrounded, assailed, searched, and robbed. I repeat, continued St. Genis, warming to his own narrative, what could I do alone against so many? The thief and his hirelings, I managed successfully, but with the money once in my possession, I could not risk staying an hour longer than I could help in that den of cut-throats.

But they were in league with De Marmont, and though I would have guarded the king's money with my life, it was filched from me ere I could draw a single weapon in its defense. He had sunk in a chair, half exhausted, with the effort of his own eloquence, and now, with elbows resting on his knees and head buried in his hands, he looked the picture of heroic misery. Crystal said nothing for a while. There was a deep frown of puzzlement between her eyes. Maurice, she said resolutely at last, you said just now that the thief was in collusion with his friend de Marmont. What did you mean by that? I would rather that. I would rather that. you guessed what I meant, Crystal, replied Maris, without looking up at her. You mean that

she began slowly, that it was Mr. Clifford, our English friend, broke in Madame Tartley, who robbed us on the broad highway. I suspected it all along. You suspected it, Matante, and said nothing, asked the girl, who obviously had not taken in the full significance. of Marisa's statement. I said absolutely nothing, replied Madame decisively. Firstly, because I did not think that I would be doing any good by putting my own surmises into my brother's head. And secondly, because I must confess that I thought that nice young Englishman had acted poor Le Bon motif. How could you think that, Matante, ejaculated Crystal hotly, a good motive to rob us at dead of night, he, a friend of Victor de Marmont,

an adherent of the Corsican. Englishmen are not adherents of the Corsican, my dear, retorted Madame dryly. And until Marisa's appearance this morning, I was satisfied that the money would ultimately reach His Majesty's own hands. But we were taking. We were taking, the money to his majesty ourselves, and Victor de Marmont was after it. Mr. Clifford may have known that. Remember, my dear, continued madame, that these were my impressions last night. Marisa's account of the den of cutthroats has modified these entirely. Again, Crystal was silent. The frown had darkened on her face. There was a line of bitter resentment round her lips. a look of contempt, of hate, of a desire to hurt in her eyes.

Marisse, she said abruptly at last, yes, I did wound that thief, did I not? Yes, in the shoulder. It gave me a slight advantage, he said with affected modesty. I am glad, and you, you were able to punish him too, I hope. Yes, I punished him. He was watching her very closely, for inwardly he had been wondering how she had taken his news. She was strangely agitated, so Marisa's troubled, jealous heart told him. Her face was flushed, her eyes were wet, and a tiny lace handkerchief which she twisted between her fingers was nothing but a damp rag. Oh, I hate him, I hate him, she murmured, as with an impatient gesture, She brushed the gathering tears from her eyes.

Father had been so kind to him. So were we all? How could he? How could he? His duty, I suppose, said St. Janus magnanimously. His duty, she retorted scornfully, to the cause which he served. Duty to a usurper, a brigand, the enemy of his country, was he then paid to serve the court.

Horcican? Probably, his being in trade buying gloves at Grenoble was all a plant, then? I am afraid so, said St. Genus, who much against his will now was sinking ever deeper and deeper in the quagmire of lying and cowardice into which he had allowed himself to drift, and he was nothing better than a spy? No one not even crystal herself, her son, and he was, could have defined with what feelings she said this. Was it solely contempt? Or did a strange mixture of regret and sorrow mingle with the scorn which she felt? Swiftly, her thoughts had flown back to that Sunday evening a very few days ago when the course of her destiny was so suddenly changed once more, when her marriage with a man whom she could never love was broken off,

when the possibilities once more rose upon the horizon of her life of a renewed existence of poverty and exile in the wake of a dispossessed king. That same evening, a man whom she had hardly noticed before a man neither of her own nationality nor of her own caste. This same Englishman, Clifford, had entered into her life, not violently or aggressively, but just with a few words of intense sympathy and with a genuine offer of friendship. And she, somehow, despite much kindness which encompassed her always had felt cheered and warmed by his words. And a strange and sweet sense of security against hurt and sorrow had entered her heart as she listened to them. And now she knew that all that was false. False his sympathy. False his offers of friendship.

His words were false. His hand grasp false. Tretory, Lord. behind that kindly look in his eyes and falsehood beneath his smile. He was nothing better than a spy. The sting of that thought hurt her more than she could have thought possible. She had so few real friends, and this one had proved a sham. Had she been alone, she would have given way to tears. But before Maris, or even her aunt, she was ashamed of her. her grief, ashamed of her feelings, and of her thoughts. There was a great deal yet that she wished to know, but somehow the words choked her when she wanted to ask further questions. Fortunately, Madame La Duchess was taking Marie's thoroughly to task. She asked innumerable questions

and would not spare him the relation of a single detail. Tell us all about it from the beginning, Maris, she said, where did you first meet the rogue? And Maris, weary and ashamed, was forced to embark on a minute account of adventures that were lies from beginning to end. He had stumbled across the wayside hostelry on a lonely by-path. He had found it full of cut-throats. He had stalked and waylaid their chief in his own room and forced to him to give up the money by the weight of his fists. It was paltry and pitiable. Nevertheless, St. Genus, as he warmed to his tail, lost the shame of it. Only wrath remained with him, anger that he should be forced into this despicable role through the intrigues of arrival. In his heart,

he was already beginning to find innumerable excuses for his cowardice. and his rage and hatred grew against Clifford as Madame's more and more persistent questions taxed his imagination almost to exhaustion. When after half an hour of this wearying cross-examination, Madame at last granted him a respite, he made a pretext of urgent business at Monsieur Lecomte de Artois's headquarters and took his leave of the ladies. He waited in vain hope that the Duchess's tact would induce her to leave him alone for a moment with Crystal. Madame stuck obstinately to her chair and was blind and deaf to every hint of appeal from him. While it's to Crystal, who was singularly absorbed and had lent but a very indifferent ear to his narrative, made no

attempt to detain him. She gave him her hand to kiss, just as Madame had done. It lay hot and moist in his grasp. Crystal, he continued to murmur as his lips touched her fingers. I love you. I worked for you. It is not my fault that I failed. She looked at him kindly and sympathetically through her tears and gave his hand a gentle little pressure. I am sure. It was not your fault, she replied gently, poor Maurice. It was not more than any kind friend would say under like circumstances, but to a lover, every little word from the beloved has a significance of its own. Every look from her has its hidden meaning. Somewhat satisfied and cheered, Maris now took his final leave.

Does Monsieur Lecompt proposed to continue his journey to Paris? He asked at the last. Oh, yes, Crystal replied, he could not stay away, while he feels that His Majesty may have need of him. Oh, Mariez, she added suddenly, forgetting her absorption, her wrath against Clifford, her own disappointment, everything, in face of the awful possible calamity, and turning anxious, appealing eyes upon the young man, you don't think, do you, that that abominable usurper will succeed in ousting the king

once more from his throne? And St. Genus, remembering Lafrey and Grenoble, remembering what was going on in Lyons at this moment, the silent grumblings of the troops, the defaced white cockades, the cries of Viva la Emperor, which he himself had heard as he rode through the town. St. Genus, remembering all this, could only shake his head and shrug his shoulders in miserable doubt. When he had gone at last, Crystal's thoughts veered back once more to Clifford and to his treachery. What abominable deceit, Matante. She cried, and quite against her will, tears of wrath and of disappointment rose to her eyes. What villainy, what odious, execrable treachery.

Madame shrugged her shoulders and took up her knitting. These days, my dear, she said, with unwanted placidity, the world is so full of treachery that men and women absorb it by every poor. But I shall not leave it at that, rejoined Crystal resolutely. I'll find a means of punishing that vile traitor. I'll make him feel the hatred which he had so richly deserved. I shall not rest till I have made him suffer as he makes me suffer now. My dear, my dear, protested, Madame La Duchess, not a little shocked at the girl's vehemence.

Indeed, Crystal's otherwise sweet, gentle, yielding personality seemed completely transformed. For the moment, she was just a sensitive woman who had been hit and hurt, and whose desire for retaliation is keener, more relentless than that of a man. All the soft look in her blue eyes had gone. They looked dark and hard. her fair curls were matted against her damp forehead. Indeed, Madame thought that for the moment, all Crystal's beauty had gone. The sweet, submissive beauty of the girl, the grace of movement, the shy, appealing gentleness of her ways, she now looked all determination, resentment, and above all

revenge. The dear child, sighed the Duchess over her knitting. It is, is the English blood in her. Those people never know how to accept the inevitable. They are always wanting to fight someone for something and never know when they are beaten. End of chapter six. Chapter 7 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Liprovoc's recording is in the public domain. recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah, the ascent of the capital, and the triumphal march from the Gulf of Joanne continued uninterrupted to Paris. After Lafrey and Grenoble, lions, where the silk weavers of La Guilatier assembled in their thousands to demolish the barricades, which had been built up on their bridge against the arrival of the emperor, and watched his entry into their city,

waving kerchiefs and hats in his honor, and tricolor flags and cockades fished out of cupboards, where they had lain hidden but not forgotten for one whole year. After lions, Villa Franch, where 60,000 peasants and workmen awaited his arrival at the foot of the tree of liberty, on the top of which a brass eagle, the relic of some old standard, glistened like gold, as it caught the rays of the setting sun, and Nevers, where the townsfolk urged the regiments as they march through the city to tear the white cockades from their hats. and Shalon Sir Seon, where the workpeople commandeer a convoy of artillery destined for the army of Massour Lecomte de Artois.

The preface of the various departments, the bureaucracy of provinces and cities, are not only amazed, but struck with terror. This is a new revolution. They cry in dismay. Yes, it is a new revolution. The revolt of the peasantry of the poor, the humble, the oppressed, the hatred which they felt against that old regime, which had come back to them with its old arrogance and its former tyrannies, had joined issue with the cult of the army for the emperor who had led it to glory, to fortune, and to fame. The people and the army. The people and the army. The emperor,

army were roused by the same enthusiasm and marched shoulder to shoulder to join the standard of Napoleon, the little man in the shabby hat and the gray reddingote, who for them personified the spirit of the great revolution, the great struggle for liberty, and its final victory. The army of the Compt de'ertois, that portion of it, which remained loyal, was powerless against the overwhelming tide of popular enthusiasm, powerless against dissatisfaction, mutterings, and constant defactions in its ranks. The army would have done well in province, for province was loyal and royalist, man, woman, and child. But Napoleon took the route of the Alps and avoided province. By the time he reached lions, he had an army of his own, and Monsieur Lecomte d'Artois, fearing more defections and worse defeats,

had thought it prudent to retire. It has often been said that if a single shot had been fired against his original little band, Napoleon's march on Paris would have been stopped. Who shall tell? There are such ifs in the world which no human mind can challenge. Certain it is that that shot was not fired. At Lafrey, Brandon gave the order, but he did not raise his musket himself. On the walls of Grenoble, St. Genus, in command of the Arturban, Hillary and urged by the Comte de Cambre did not dare to give the order or to fire a gun himself. The men declare, he had said gloomily, that they would blow their officers from their own guns. And at Lyons, there was not militiamen, a royalist volunteer or a pariah out of the streets

who was willing to fire that first and single shot. And though Marshall MacDonald swore ultimately that he would do it himself, his determination failed him at the last when surrounded by his wavering troops. He found himself face to face with the conqueror of Austerlitz and Jenna and Rivoli and a thousand other glorious fights, with the man in the gray redding goat who had created him, Marshal of France, and due of Tarrant on the battlefields of Lombardy, his comrade in arms, who had shared his own scanty army rations with him, slept beside him round the bivouac fires, and round whom now there rose a cry from end to end of Lyons, Viva la Emperor. Victor de Marmont did not wait for the arrival of the

emperor at Lyons, nor did he attempt to enter the city. He knew that there was still some money in the imperial treasury brought over from Elba, and his mind, always in search of the dramatic, had dwelt with pleasure on thoughts of the day when the emperor, having entered Fontainebleau, or perhaps even Paris and the Tulleries, would there be met by his faithful de Marmarmer who on bended knees in the midst of a brilliant and admiring throng would present to him the 25 million francs, originally the property of the empress herself, and now happily rested from the cupidity of royalist traders. The picture pleased de Marmont's fancy. He dwelt on it with delight. He knew that no one requited a service more amplenance.

and more generously than Napoleon. He knew that after this service rendered, there was nothing to which he, de Marmont, young as he was, could not aspire. Title, riches, honors, anything he wanted would speedily become his. And with these, to his credit, he could claim Crystal de Cambrai once more. Oh, she would be humbled again by then. she and her father, too, the proud aristocrats, doomed once more to penury and exile, unless he, de Marmont, came forth like the fairy prince to the beggar-maid, with hands laden with riches, ready to lay these at the feet of the woman he loved. Yes, Crystal the Cambrai would be humbled. De Marmont, though he felt that he loved her more and better than any man had. had ever loved any woman before, nevertheless had a decided wish that she should be humbled and

suffer bitterly thereby. He felt that her pride was his only enemy. Her pride and royalist prejudices of the latter, he thought but little, confident of his emperor's success. He thought that all those hot-headed royalists would soon realize the hopelessness of the hopelessness of of their cause rendered all the more hopeless through its short-lived triumph of the past year, and abandon it gradually and surely, accepting the inevitable and rejoicing over the renewed glory which would come over France. As for her pride, well, that was going to be humbled, along with the pride of the bourbon princes of that fatuous old king, of all those arrogant aristocrats who had come back after years of exile, as arrogant, as tyrannical as ever before.

These were pleasing thoughts, which kept Victor de Marmont company on his way between lions and Fontainebleau. Once passed Villa Franch, he sent the bulk of his essence. He sent the bulk of his escort back to lions where the emperor should have arrived by this time. He had written out a superficial report of his expedition, which the sergeant, in charge of the little troop, was to convey to the emperor's own hands. He only kept two men with him, put himself and them into plain traveling clothes, which he purchased at Villa France, and continued his journey. journey to the north, without much haste. The roads were safe enough from footpads. He and his two men were well armed, and what stragglers from the main royalist army he came across would be far

too busy with their own retreat and their own disappointment to pay much heed to a civilian and seemingly harmless traveler. De Marmont loved to linger on the way in the towns and Hamlets, where the news of the Emperor's approach had already been wafted from Grenoble or lions or Villa Franch on the wings of wind or birds, who shall say, enough that it had come that the peasants assembled in masses in their villages were whispering together that he was coming, the little man in the gray redding-goat, la Emperor, and de Marmont would halt in those villages. and stopped to whisper with the peasants, too. Yes, he was coming, and the whole of France was giving him a rousing welcome. There was Le Frey and Grenoble and Lyons. The army rallied to his standard as one

man, and de Marmont would then pass on to another village, to another town, no longer whispering after a while, but loudly proclaiming the arrival of the emperor who had come into his own again. After Nevers, he was only 24 hours ahead of Napoleon, and his progress became a triumphant one. Newspapers, dispatches had filtered through from Paris, news became authentic, though some of it sounded a little wild. Wherever de Marmont arrived, he was received, with acclamations, as the man who had seen the emperor, who had assisted at the emperor's magnificent entry into Grenoble, who could assure citizens and peasantry that it was all true, that the emperor would be in Paris again very shortly, and that once more there would be

an end to tyranny and oppression, to the rule of the aristocrats, and a number of incompetent, and fatuous princes. He did not halt at Fontainebleau, for now he knew that the court of the Tulleries was in a panic, that neither the Comte de Artois nor the Duke de Barry, nor any of the royal princes had succeeded in keeping the army together, that defections had been rife for the past week, even before Napoleon had shown himself, and that Marshal Ney, the bravest soldier in France, had joined his emperor at Oxir. No, de Marmont would not halt at Fontainebleau. It was Paris that he wanted to see. Paris, which today would witness the hasty flight of the gaudy and unpopular king, whom it had never learned to love, Paris decking herself out like a bride for the arrival of her

bridegroom, Paris waiting and watching, while once again on the Tulleries and the Hotel de Ville, on the Louvre and the Luxembourg, on church towers and government buildings, the old tricolor flag waved gaily in the wind. He slept that night at a small hotel in the the Louvre quarter, but the whole evening he spent on the Place du Carousel, with the crowd outside the Tulleries, watching the departure from the palace of the infirm King of France and of his court. The crowd was silent and obviously deeply moved. The spectacle before it of an old, ailing monarch, driven forth out of the home of his ancestors, and forced after an exile, of three and twenty years, and a brief reign of less than one, to go back once more to misery and exile,

was pitiable in the extreme. Many forgot all that the brief reign had meant in disappointments and bitter regrets, and only saw in the pathetic figure that waddled painfully from portico to carriage door, a monarch who was unhappy, abandoned, and defenseless, a monarch, too, who in his unheroic, sometimes grotesque person, was nevertheless the representative of all the privileges and all the rights, of all the dignity and majesty pertaining to the most ancient ruling dynasty in Europe, as well as of all the humiliations and misfortunes, which that same dynasty had endured. It is late in the evening of March 20th. A thin mist is spreading from the river right over Paris, and from the Place du Carousel, the lighted windows of the Tullerese Palace

appear only like tiny, dimly flickering stars. Here, an immense crowd is assembled. It has waited patiently hour after hour, ever since in the earlier part of the afternoon, a courier has come over from Fontainebleau with the news that the emperor is already there and would be in Paris this night. It is the same crowd which 24 hours ago shed a tear or two in sympathy for the departing monarch. Now it stands here waiting, excited, ready to cheer. the return of a popular hero. Half-forgotten, wildly acclaimed, madly welcomed, to be cursed again,

and again forgotten so soon. It was a heterogeneous crowd forsooth, made up in great part of the curious, the idol, the indifferent, and in great part two, of the Bonapartist enthusiasts and malcontents, who had groaned under the reaction, actionary tyranny of the restoration, of malcontents too, of no enthusiasm, who were ready to welcome any change which might bring them to prominence or to fortune, with here and there a sprinkling

of hot-headed revolutionaries cursing the return of the emperor as heartily as they had cursed that of the Bourbon King. And here and there, a few heart-sick royalists come to watch the final annihilation of their hopes. Victor de Marmont, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood among the crowd for a while. He knew that the emperor would probably not be in Paris before night, and he loved to be in the very midst of the wave of enthusiasm, which was surging higher and ever higher in the crowd,

and hear the excited whispers, and to feel all round him, wrapping him closely like a magic mantle of warmth and delight, the exultation of this mass of men and women, assembled here to acclaim the hero whom he himself adored, closely buttoned inside his coat, he had scraps of paper worth the ransom of any king. Among the crowd, too, Bobby Clifford moved and stood. was one of those who watched this enthusiasm with a heart filled with forebodings. He knew well how short this enthusiasm would be. He knew that within a few weeks, days perhaps, the bold and reckless adventurer who had so easily reconquered France would realize that the imperial crown would never

be allowed to sit firmly upon his head. None in this crowd knew better that the present pageant and glory would be short-lived than did this tall, quiet Englishman, who listened with half an ear and a smile of good-natured contempt to the loud cries of Viva la Emperor, which rose spontaneously whenever the sound of horses' hooves or rattles of wheels from the direction of Fontainebleau suggested the approach of the hero of the day. None knew better than he that already, in far-off England, another great hero named Wellington, was organizing the forces which presently would crush forever this time the might and ambitions of the man whom England had never acknowledged. as anything but a usurper and a foe. And closely buttoned inside his coat, Clifford had a letter, which he had received at his lodgings in the Alma quarter only a few moments before he sallied forth into the streets. That letter was an answer to a confidential inquiry of his own, sent to the chief of the British Secret Intelligence Department resident in Paris,

desiring to know if the department had any knowledge of a vast sum of money, having come unexpectedly into the hands of His Majesty, the King of France, before his flight from the Capitol. The answer was an emphatic no. The intelligence department knew of no such windfall, but its secret agents reported that Victor de Marmont, captain of the usurper's bodyguard had waylaid masseur-lai de Saint-Genis on the high road, not far from Lyons. The escort which had accompanied Victor de Marmont on that occasion had been dismissed by him

at Villa Franch, and the information which the British Secret Intelligence Department had obtained came through the indiscretion of the sergeant in charge of the escort, who had boasted in a tavern at Lyons that he had actually surged M'Euse de Saint-Genis and found a large sum of money upon him, of which Maud de Marmont promptly took possession. When Bobby Clifford received this letter and first mastered its contents, the language which he used would have done honor to a Toulon, coal-heaver. He cursed St. Genese's stupidity in allowing himself to be caught. But above all, he cursed himself for his soft-heartedness, which had prompted him to part with the money. The letter which brought him the bad news seemed to scorch his hand and brand it with the mark of

folly. He had thought to serve the woman he loved, first by taking the money from her, since he knew that Victor de Marmont, with an escort of cavalry, was after it, and secondly, by allowing the man whom she loved to have the honor and glory of laying the money at his sovereign's feet. The whole had ended in a miserable fiasco, and Clifford felt sore and wrathful against himself. And also among the crowd, among those who came, heart-sick, hopeless, forlorn, to watch the triumph of the enemy, as they had watched the humiliation of their feeble king, was Monsieur Lecomte de Cambre, with his daughter Crystal on his arm. They had come, as so many royalists had done, with a vague hope that in the attitude of the crowd they would discern indifference

rather than exultation, and that the active agents of their party, as well as, those of England and of Prussia would succeed presently in stirring up a counter-demonstration, that a few cries of Vival-La Roy would prove to the army at least, and to the people of Paris, that acclamations for the usurper were at any rate, not unanimous. But the crowd was not indifferent. It was excited. When first the Comp de Cambrai and Crystal arrived on the Place du Carousel, a number of white cockades could be picked out in the throng, either worn on a hat or fixed to a buttonhole. But as the afternoon wore on, there were fewer and fewer of these small white stars to be seen. The temper of the crowd did not brook this mute reproach,

its enthusiasm. One or two cockades had been roughly torn and thrown into the mud, and the wearer unpleasantly ill-used if he persisted in any royalistic demonstration. Crystal, when she saw these incidents, was not the least frightened. She wore her white cockade openly pinned to her cloak. She was far too loyal, far too enthusiastic and fearless, far too. Far too. Far too. much a woman to yield her convictions to the popular feeling of the moment. And she looked so young and so pretty, clinging to the arm of her father, who looked a picturesque and harmless representative of the fallen regime, that with the exception of a few rough words, a threat here and there, they had so far escaped active molestation. And the crowd presently,

had so much to see that it ceased to look out for white cockades or to bait the sad-eyed royalists. A procession of carriages, sparse at first and simple in appearance, had begun to make its way from different parts of the town across the place-du carousel toward the tulleries. They arrived very quietly at first, with as little clatter as possible, and drew up before the gates of the pavilion de floor with as little show as may be. The carriage doors were opened unostentatiously, and dark furtive figures stepped out from them and almost ran to the door of the palace, so eager were they to escape observation. Their big cloaks wrapped closely round them to hide the court dress or uniform below.

Ministers, dignitaries of the court, counselors of state, major domos, stewards, butlers, body servants, they all came one by one, or in groups of twos or threes. As the afternoon wore on, these arrivals grew less and less furtive. The carriages arrived with greater clatter and to-do, with finer liveries and more gorgeous harness. Those who stepped out of the carriage door were no longer quick and stealthy in their movements. They lingered near the step to give an order or to chat to a friend. The big cloak no longer concealed the gorgeous uniform below. It was allowed to fall away from the shoulder, so as to display the row of metals and stars, the gold embroidery, the magnificence of the court attire. The emperor had left Fontainebleau,

Within an hour, he would be in Paris. Everyone knew it, and the excitement in the crowd that watched grew more and more intense. Last night, these same men and women had looked with mute, if superficial sympathy, on the departure of Louis XIII, through these same palace gates. Many eyes then became moist at the sight, as memory flew back 20 years to the murdered king, his flight to Varenz, his ignominious return, his weary cavalry from prison to courthouse, and thence to the scaffold. And here was his brother, come back after 23 years of exile, acclaimed by the populace, cheered by foreign soldiers, Russians, Austrians, English, anything but French, and driven forth once more to exile after the brief glory that lasted

not quite a year. But this, the crowd of today, has already forgotten, with the completeness peculiar to crowds, men, women, and children, too, they are no longer mute. They talk and they chatter. They scream with astonishment and delight. Whenever, now from more and more carriages, more and more gorgeously dressed folk descend. The ladies are beginning to arrive, the wives of the great court dignitaries, the ladies of the court and household of this still absent empress,

they do not attempt to hide their brilliant toilets. Their bare shoulders and arms gleam through the fastenings of their cloaks, and diamonds sparkle in their hair. The crowd has recognized some of, the great marshals, the men who in the Emperor's wake led the French troops to victory in Italy, in Prussia, in Austria. Marit, Duke de Basano, is there, and the crowd cheers him. The Duke de Rovigno, Marshal devout, Prince de Echmuel, General Exelman's, one of Napoleon's oldest companions

at arms, the Duke of Gaeta, the Duke of Padua, a crowd of generals and superior officers. It seems like the world of the sleeping beauty and of the enchanted castle, which a kiss has awakened from its 11 months' sleep. The empire had only been asleep. It had dreamed a bad dream, wherein its hero was a prisoner and an exile. Now it is slowly awakened back to life and to reality. The night wears on. Darkness and fog envelop Paris more and more. Excitment becomes akin to anxiety. If the emperor did leave Fontainebleau, when the last courier said that he did, he should certainly be here by now. There are strange whispers, strange waves of evil reports that spread through the waiting crowd. A royalist fanatic had shot at the emperor. The emperor was wounded. He was dead.

Oh, the excitement of that interminable wait. At last, just as from every church tower, the bells strike the hour of nine, there comes the muffled sound of a distant cavalcade, the sound of horses galloping and only half drowning that of the rumbling of coach wheels. It comes from the direction of the embankment, and from far away now is heard the first cry of Viva la Emperor. The noise gets louder and more clear. The cries are repeated again and again till they merge into one great, uproarious clamor. Like the ocean, when lashed by the wind, the crowd surges, moves, rises on tiptoe, subsides, falls back to crush forward again, and once more to retreat, as a heavy coach surrounded by a thousand or so of mounted men, dashes over the cobbles

of the plas-do carousel, whilst the clamor of the crowd becomes positively. deafening. Viva la Emperor. The officers in the courtyard of the palace rush to the coach as it draws up at the pavilion de floor. One of them succeeds in opening the carriage door. The emperor is literally torn out of the carriage, carried to the vestibule, where more officers seize him, raise him from the crowd, bear him along, hoisted upon their shoulders, up the monumental staircase. Their enthusiasm is akin to delirium. They nearly tear their hero to pieces in their wild, mad, frantic welcome. In heaven's name, protect his person, exclaims the Duke-day Viscence anxiously, and he and LaValette managed to get hold of the banisters, and

by dint of fighting and pushing, succeed in walking backwards step by step in front of the emperor, thus making a way for him. La Vallette can hardly believe his eyes, and the Duke Dave Viscence keeps murmuring, it is the emperor, it is the emperor, and he, the little stout man in greencloth coat and white breeches, walks up the steps of his reconquered palace, like a man in a dream. His eyes are fixed apparently on nothing. He makes no movement to keep his two enthusiastic friends away. The smile upon his lips is meaningless and fixed. Viva la Emperor vociferates the crowd. Viva la Emperor for 100 days. A few weeks of joy, a few weeks of anxiety, a few weeks of indecision, of wavering, and of doubt, then defeat more irrevocable than before,

exile more distant, despair more complete. Viva la Emperor, while we shout with excitement, while we remember the disappointments of the past year, while we hope for better things from a hand that has lost its cunning, a mind that has lost its power, Viva la Emperor. Let him live for an hundred days, while we forget our enthusiasm, and Europe prepares its final crushing blow. Let him live until we remember once again the horrors of war, the misery, the famine, the devastated homes, until once more we see the maimed and crippled crawling back wearily from the fields of glory, until our ears ring with the wails of widows and the cries of the fatherless. Then let him no longer live, for he it is who has brought this misery on us through his will and through his ambition. And France has suffered so much from the aftermath of glory that all she wants now is rest. Gradually, but it took some hours, the tumult and excitement in and round the tooleries subsided.

The emperor managed to shut himself up in his study and to eat some supper in peace. While gradually outside his windows, the crowd, who had nothing more to see and was getting tired of staring up at glittering panes of glass, went back more or less quietly to their home. Only in the courtyard of the tulleries, the troopers of the cavalry which had formed the emperor's escort from Fontainebleau, tethered their horses to the railings, rolled themselves in their mantles, and slept on the pavements, giving to this portion of the palace the appearance of a bivouac in a place which has been taken by storm. One of the last to leave the Plasdou Carousel was Bobby Clifford. The crowd was thin by this time, but it was the tired and the indifferent, the merely curious, who had been the first to go. Those who remained to the last were either the very enthusiastic who wanted to set up a final shout of Viva la Emperor, after their idol had entirely disappeared from their view, or the malcontents who would not lose a moment to discuss their grievances, to murmur covert threats, or suggest revolt in some shape,

or form, or kind. Bobby slipped quickly past several of these isolated groups, indifferent to the dark and glowering looks of suspicion that were cast at his tall, muscular figure, with the firm step and the defiant walk that was vaguely reminiscent of the British troops that had been in Paris last year at the time of the foreign occupation. He had skirted the Tullery's Gardens and was walking along the embankment, which now was dark and solitary, save for some rowdy enthusiasts on ahead, who, arm in arm, in two long rows, that reached, from the garden railings to the parapet, were obstructing the roadway and shouting themselves hoarse with Viva la Emperor. Clifford, who was walking faster than they did, was just deliberating

in his mind whether he should turn back and go home some other way or charge this unpleasant obstruction from the rear and risk the consequences when he noticed two figures still for on ahead, walking in the same direction as he himself and the rowdy crowd. One of these two figures, thus viewed in the distance through the mist and from the back, looked nevertheless like that of a woman, which fact at once decided Bobby as to what he would do next. He sprinted toward the crowd as fast as he could. But unfortunately, he did not come up with them. In time to, to prevent the two unfortunate pedestrians being surrounded by the turbulent throng, which still arm in arm and to the accompaniment of wild shouts had formed a ring around them

and were now vociferating at the top of raucous voices. Abbas la cocard blanche, Abbas, Vila la Emperor. A flickering street lamp feebly lit up this unpleasant scene. Bobby saw the vague outline of a man and of a woman standing boldly in the midst of the hostile crowd, while two white cockades gleamed defiantly against the dark background of their cloaks. To an Englishman, who was a past master in the noble art of using fists and knees to advantage, the situation was neither uncommon nor very perilous, the crowd was, was noisy, it is true, and was no doubt ready enough for mischief, but Clifford's swift

and scientific onslaught from the rear staggered and disconcerted the most bold. There was a good deal more shouting, plenty of cursing. The Englishman's arms and legs seemed to be flying in every direction, like the arms of a windmill, a good many thuds and bumps, a few groans, a renewal of the attack, more thuds and groans, and the discomfited group of roisterers fled in every direction. Bobby, with a smile, turned to the two motionless figures whom he had so opportunely rescued from an unpleasant plight. Just a few turbulent blackguards, he said lightly, as he made a quick attempt at readjusting the set of his coat, and the position of his satin stock. There was not much fight in them, really, and he had, of course,

lost his hat in the brief, if somewhat stormy encounter, and now, as he turned, the thin streak of light from the street lamp fell full upon his face, with its twinkling, deep-set eyes, and the half-humorous, self-deprecatory curl of the firm mouth, a simultaneous exclamation came from his two protégés and stopped the easy flow of his light-hearted words. He peered closely into the gloom, and it was his turn now to exclaim, half-doubting, wholly astonished, mademoiselle Crystal, Monsieur Lecomte. Indeed, sir, broke in the comp slowly, and with a voice that seemed to be trembling with emotion. It is to my daughter and to myself that you have just rendered a signal and generous service.

For this I tender you my thanks. Yet believe me, I pray you when I say that both she and I would rather have suffered any humiliation or ill usage from that rough crowd than owe our safety and comfort to you. There was so much contempt, hatred even. in the tone of voice of this old man, whose manner habitually was a pattern of moderation and of dignity, that for the moment Clifford was completely taken aback. Puzzlement fought with resentment and with the maddening sense that he was anyhow impotent to avenge even so bitter an insult as had just been hurled upon him against a man of the comps years,

status. Mr. LaCont, he said at last, will you let me remind you that the other day, when you turned me out of your house like a dishonest servant, you would not allow me to say a single word in my own justification. The man on whose word you condemned me then without a hearing is a scatter-brained braggard, who you yourself must know is not a man to be trusted, And pardon me, Monsieur, broke in the Comte with perfect Sengfroy. Even if I acted on that evening with undue haste and ill-considered judgment, many things have happened since, which you yourself surely would not wish to discuss with me, just when you have rendered me a signal service.

Your pardon, Monsieur Lecomte, retorted Clifford with equal coolness, I know of nothing which could possibly justify the charges, which, not later than last Sunday, you laid at my door. The charge which I laid at your door then, Mr. Clifford, has not been lifted from its threshold yet. I charged you with deliberately conspiring against my king and my country, all the while that you were eating bread and salt at my table. I charged you with, with striving to render assistance to that corsican usurper, whom may the great God punish, and you yourself practically owned to this before you left my house.

This I did not, Monsieur Lecomte, broke in Clifford hotly, as a man of honor I give you my word, that except for my being in de Marmont's company on that day, that he posted up the emperor's proclamation in a man, Grenoble, I had no hand in any political scheme. And you would have me believe you, exclaimed the Comte, with ever-growing vehemence, when you talk of that corsican brigand as the emperor. Those words, sir, are an insult. And had you not saved my daughter and me just now from violence, I would, old as I am, strike you in the face for them. With an impatient,

sigh at the old man's hot-headed obstinacy, Clifford turned with a look of appeal to Crystal, who up to now had taken no part in the discussion. Mademoiselle, he said gently, will you not at least do me justice? Cannot you see that I am clumsy at defending my own honor, seeing that I have never had to do it before? I only see, Masor, she retorted coldly, that you are making vain and pitiable efforts to regain my father's regard, no doubt for purposes of your own. But why should you trouble? You have nothing more to gain from us. Your clever comedy of a highwayman on the road has succeeded beyond your expectations. The Corsican, who now sits in the armchair, lately vacated, by the an infirm monarch whom you and yours help to dethrone will no doubt reward you for your pains. As for me, I can only echo my father's feelings. I would 10,000 times sooner have been torn

to pieces by a rough crowd of ignorant folk than owe my safety to your interference. She took her father's arm and made a movement to go. Instinctively Clifford, tried to stop her. At her words, he had flushed with anger to the very roots of his hair. The injustice of her accusation maddened him, but the bitter resentment in the tone of her voice, the look of passionate hatred with which she regarded him as she spoke, positively appalled him. Mr. Lecomte, he said firmly, I cannot let you go like this, whilst such horrible thoughts of me exist in your mind. England gave you shelter for three and twenty years in the name of my country's kindness and hospitality toward you. I, as one of her sons, demand that you tell me frankly and clearly

exactly what I am supposed to have done to justify this extraordinary hatred and contempt, which you and Mademoiselle Crystal seem now to have for me. One of England's sons, Massur, retorted the Compt equally firmly. Nay, you are not even that. England stands for right and for justice, for our legitimate king, and the punishment of the usurper. Great God, he exclaimed, more and more bewildered now, are you accusing me of treachery against my own country. This will I allow no man to do, not even. Then, sir, I pray you, rejoined Crystal proudly, go and seek a quarrel with the man who has unmasked you, who caught you red-handed

with the money in your possession, which you had stolen from us, who forced you to give up what you had stolen, and whom then you and your friend Victor de Marmont waylaid and robbed once more. Go then, Mr. Clifford, and seek a quarrel with the Marquis de Saint-Generes, who has already struck you in the face once, and no doubt we'll be ready to do so again. And what of Clifford's thoughts, while the woman he loved with all the strength of his lonely heart, poured forth these hands. hideous insults upon him. Amazement, then wrath, bewilderment, then final hopelessness. All these sensations ran riot through his brain. St. Genus had behaved like an abominable blackguard. This he gathered from what she said. He had lied like a mean skunk and betrayed the man who had

rendered him an infinitely great service. Of him, Clifford wouldn't even think. Such despicable crawling worms did exist on God's earth. He knew that, but he possessed the happy faculty, the sunny disposition that is able to pass a worm by and ignore its existence, while keeping his eyes fixed upon all that is beautiful in earth and in this sky. Of St. Genus, therefore, he would not think. Someday, perhaps, he might be able to punish him, but not now, not while this poor, forlorn, heart-sick girl pinned her implicit faith upon that wretched worm and bestowed on him the priceless garden of her love. An infinity of pity rose in his kindly heart for her, and obscured every other emotion. That same pity he had felt for her before,

a sweet, protecting pity, gentle sister to fiercer, madder, love, which had perhaps never been so strong as it was at this hour, when for the second time he was about to make a supreme sacrifice for her. That the sacrifice must be made. he already knew, knew it even when first St. Genesis' name escaped her lips. She loved St. Janice, and she believed in him. And he, Clifford, who loved her with every fiber of his being, with all the passionate ardor of his lonely heart, could serve her no better than by accepting this awful humiliation which she put upon him. If he could have justified himself now, he would not have done it, not while she loved St. Genis, and he, Clifford, was less than

nothing to her. What did it matter after all what she thought of him? He would have given his life for her love, but short of that, everything else was anyhow intolerable. Her contempt, her hatred, what mattered? Since tonight, anyhow, he would pass out of her life forever. He was ready for the sacrifice, sacrifice of pride, of honor, of peace of mind, but he did want to know that that sacrifice would be really needed, and that when made, it would not be in vain. And in order to gain this end, he put a final question to her. One moment, Mademoiselle, he said, before you go, will you tell me one thing, at least? Was it Monsieur de Saint-Gennes himself, who accused me of treachery?

There is no reason why I should deny it, sir, she replied coldly. It was Monsieur de Saint-Gentis himself, who gave to my father and to me a full account of the interview which he had with you at a lonely inn some few kilometers from lions. and less than two hours after we had been shamefully robbed on the high road of money that belonged to the king. And did Monsieur de St. Janus tell you, mademoiselle, that I proposed to use that money for mine own ends? Or for those of the Corsican, she retorted impatiently, I care not which. Yes, sir, Monsieur de St. Genis told me that with his own lips. And when I had heard the whole miserable story of your duplicity and your treachery,

I, a helpless, deceived, and feeble woman, did then and there register a vow that I, too, would do you some grievous wrong one day, a wrong as great as you had done, not only to the king of France, but to me and to my father, who trusted you as we would a friend. you did tonight has, of course, altered the irrevocableness of my vow. I owe perhaps my father's life to your timely intervention, and for this I must be grateful. But her voice broke in a kind of passionate sob, and it took her a moment or two to recover herself, even while Clifford stood by, mute, and with well-nigh broken heart, his very soul so filled with sorrow for her that there was no room in it even for resentment. Father, let us go now, Crystal said, after a while with brusque transition, and in a steady voice,

no purpose can be served by further recriminations. None, my dear, said the Comte, in his usual polished manner. Personally, I have felt all along that explanations could but aggravate the unpleasantness of the present position. Mr. Clifford understands perfectly, I am sure. He had his acts to grind, whether personal or political, we really do not care to know. We are not likely ever to meet again. All we can do now is to thank him for his timely intervention on our behalf. and and brand him a liar broke in clifford almost involuntarily and with bitter vehemence your pardon monsieur retorted the comte coldly neither my daughter nor i have done that it is your deeds that condemn you your own admissions and the word of messrs de st genus would you perchance suggest that he lied oh no rejoined clifford with perfect calmness it is I who lied, of course. He had said this very slowly, and as if speaking with mature deliberation, not raising his voice, nor yet allowing it to quiver from any stress of latent

emotion. And yet there was something in the tone of it, something in the man's attitude that suggested such a depth of passion that, quite instinctively, the compt remained silent and odd. For the moment, however, Clifford seemed to have forgotten the older man's presence, wounded in every fiber of his being, by the woman whom he loved so tenderly and so devotedly, he had spoken only to her, compelling her attention and stirring, even by this simple admission of a despicable crime, an emotion in her which she could not, would not define. turned large, inquiring eyes on him, into which she tried to throw all that she felt of hatred and contempt for him. She had meant to wound him, and it seemed indeed as if she had succeeded

beyond her dearest wish. By the dim, flickering light of the street lamp, his face looked haggard and old. The traitor was suffering almost as much as he deserved. Almost as much, Crystal said obstinately to herself as she had wished him to do. And yet at sight of him now, Crystal felt a strong, unconquerable pity for him, the womanly instinct, no doubt, to heal rather than to hurt. But this pity she was not prepared to show him. She wanted to pass right out of his life, to forget once and for all, that sense of warmth of the soul,

of comfort and of peace, which she had felt in his presence on that memorable evening at Brestolo. Above all, she never wanted to touch his hand again, the hand which seemed to have such power to protect and to shield her, when on that same evening she had placed her own in it. Therefore, now she took her father's arm once more. She turned resolutely to go. One more curt nod of the head, one last look of undying enmity,

and then she would pass finally out of his life forever. How Clifford got back to his lodgings that night, he never knew. Crystal, after his final admission, had turned, without another word from him, and he had stood there in the lonely, silent street, watching her retreating form on her father's arm, until the mist and gloom swallowed her up, as in an elvish grave. Then mechanically, he hunted for his hat, and he, too, walked away. That was the end of his life's romance, of course, the woman whom he loved with his very soul, who held his heart, his mind, his imagination captive, whose every look on him was joy, whose every smile was a delight, had gone out of his life forever. She had turned away from him

as she would from a venomous snake. She hated him so cruelly that she would gladly hurt him, do him some grievous wrong if she could. And Clifford was left in utter loneliness, with only a vague, foolish longing in his heart, the longing that one day she might have her wish and might have the power to wound him to death, bodily, just as she had wounded him to the depth of his soul tonight. For the rest, there was nothing more for him to do in France. King Louis was not like to remain at Lill very long. Within 24 hours, probably, he would continue his journey, his flight to Ghent, where once more he would hold his court in exile, with all the fugitive royalists rallied around his tottering throne. Clifford had already received orders from his

chief at the Intelligence Department to report himself first at Lill, than if the king and the court had already left at Ghent. If, however, there were plenty of men to do the work of the department, it was his intention to give up his share in it and to cross over to England as soon as possible so as to take up the first commission in the new army that he could get. England would be wanting soldiers more urgently than she had ever done before. Mother and sisters would be well, looked after. He, Bobby, had earned a fortune for them, and they no longer needed a breadwinner now, whilst England wanted all her sons, for she would surely fight. Clifford, who had seen the English papers that morning, as they were brought over by an intelligence courier, had realized that

the debates in Parliament could only end one way. England would not tolerate Bonaparte. She would not even tolerate his abdication in favor of his own son. Austria had already declared her intention of renewing the conflict, and so had Prussia. England's decision would, of course, turn the scale, and Bobby, in his own mind, had no doubt which way that decision would go. The man whom the people of France loved and whom his army idolized was the disturber of the peace of Europe. No one would believe his protestations of Pacific intentions. Now, he had caused too much devastation, too much misery in the past, who would believe in him for the future. For the sake of that past and for dread of the future,

he must go, go from whence he could not again return, and Bobby Clifford, remembering Grenoble, remembering lions, Villa Franch, and Nevers, could not altogether suppress a sigh of regret for the brave man, the fine genius, the reckless adventurer who had so boldly scaled for the second time, the heights of the capital, oblivious of the fact that the Tarpean rock was so dangerously near. At this same hour when Bobby Clifford finally bade adieu to all, all the vague hopes of happiness which his love for Crystal de Cambrai had engendered in his heart, his Willem, companion in the long ago, rival and enemy now, Victor de Marmont, was laying a tribute of 25 million francs at the feet of his beloved emperor and receiving the thanks of the man to serve whom he would gladly have given his life. What reward shall we give you for you,

this service the emperor had deigned to ask the means to subdue a woman's pride sire and make her thankful to marry me replied de marmont promptly a title what queried the emperor you have everything else you rogue to please a woman's fancy and make her thankful to marry you a title sire would be a welcome addition said de marmont lightly and the freedom to go and woo her until France and my emperor need me again. Then go and do your wooing, man, and come back here to me in three months, for I doubt not by then the flames of war will have been kindled against me again. End of chapter seven. Chapter 8 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The sound of revelry by night. But the hand had lost its cunning, the mighty brain, its indomitable willpower. Genius was still there, but it was cramped now by indecision. The indecision, born of a sense of enmity around suspicion, where there should have been nothing but,

enthusiasm and the blind devotion of the past. The man who, all alone, by the force of his personality and of his prestige, had reconquered France, who had been acclaimed from the Gulf of Juan to the gates of the Tulleries as the savior of France, the people's emperor, the beloved of the nation, returned from exile. The man who on the 20th of March had said with his old vigor and his old pride, failure is the nightmare of the feeble, impotence, the refuge of the paltroon. The man who had marched, as in a dream from end to end of France, to find himself face to face with the whole of Europe in league against him, with a million men being hastily armed to hurl him from his throne again, now found the south of France in open revolt, the west ready to rise against him, the north

in accord with his enemies. He has not enough men to oppose to those millions. His arsenals are depleted, his treasury empty, and after he has worked 16 hours of the 24 at reorganizing his army, his finances, his machinery of war, he has to meet a set of apathetic or openly hostile ministers, constitutional representatives, men who are ready to thwart him at every turn, jealous only of curtailing his power, of obscuring his ascendancy, of clipping the eagle's wings, ere it soars to giddy heights again, and to them he must give in. From them, he must beg and treat, give up, give up all the time. One hoped for privilege after another, one power after another. He yields the military dictatorship to other far less competent hands. He grants liberty to the press,

liberty of debate, liberty of election, liberty to all and sundry. But suspicion lurks around him. They suspect his sincerity, his goodwill, they doubt his promises. They mistrust that dormant Olympian ambition. which has precipitated France into humiliation, and brought the stranger's armies within her gates. The same man was there, the same genius, who even now could have mastered all the enemies of France, and saved her from her present subjection and European insignificance. But the men around him were not the same. He, the guiding hand, was still there, but the machinery no longer worked as it had done in the past before disaster had blunted and stiffened the temper of its steel.

The men around the emperor were not now as they were in the days of Jenna and Austerlitz and Wagram. Their characters and temperaments had undergone a change. had brought on slackness. The past year of constant failures had engendered a sense of discouragement and demoralization, a desire to argue, to foresee difficulties, to foretell further disasters. He saw it all well enough. He, the man with the far-seeing mind and the eagle eyes that missed nothing, neither a look of indecision nor an indication of revolt. He saw it all, but he could do nothing, for he too felt overwhelmed by that wave of indecision and of discouragement. Faith in himself, energy in action had gone. He envisioned the possibility of a vanquished

and dismembered France. Above all, he, he, he, he had lost belief in his star. The star of his destiny, which, rising over this small island of Corsica, shining above a humble, middle-class home, had guided him step by step, from triumph to triumph, to the highest pinnacle of glory to which man's ambition has ever reached. That star had been dimmed once. Its radiance was no longer unquenchable. Destiny has turned against me, he said, and in her, I have lost my most valuable helpmate. And now the whole of Europe had declared war against him. And in a final impassioned speech, he turns to his ministers and to the representatives of his people. Help me to save France, he begs.

Afterwards, we'll settle our quarrels. One hundred days after he began his dream march from the Gulf of Joanne in the wake of his eagle, he started from Paris with the army which he loved and which alone he trusted to meet Europe and his fate on the plains of Belgium. And in Brussels they danced, danced late into the night. No one was to know that within the next three days, the destinies of the whole world would be changed by the hand of God. And how to hide from timid eyes, the sense of this oncoming destiny, how to stop for a few brief hours, the flow of women's tears. The ball should have.

have been postponed. Her grace of Richmond was willing that it should be so. How could men and women dance, flirt and make merry, while death was already reckoning the heavy toll of brave young lives which she would demand on the morrow? But who knows England, who has not seen her at the hour of danger? Put off the ball? Why perish the thought? The timid townsfolk of Brussels, or the ladies of the French royalist party who were in great numbers in the city, might think there was something amiss. What was amiss? Some gallant young men would go on the morrow and conquer or die for England's honor. There's nothing amiss in that. Why put off the ball? The girls would be disappointed. They who like to dance,

Why should they be deprived of partners just because some of them would lie dead on the battlefield tomorrow? Open your salons, Madame La Duchess. The soldiers of Britain will come to your ball. They will laugh and dance and flirt tonight, as bravely as they will die tomorrow. The sands of life are running low for them. In a few hours, perhaps, a bullet, a bayon. who knows will cut short that merry laugh, still the gallant heart that even now takes a last and fond farewell from a blushing partner after a waltz in a sweet-scented alcove with sounds of soft

and distinct music around that stills the coming cannons roar. Gordon and Lancy, Crawford and Ponsombie and Halkat, I, and Wellington, too. What immortal names are spoken by the flunkies tonight as they usher in these brave men into the hostess's presence. The ballroom is brilliantly illuminated with hundreds of wax candles. The women have put on their pretty dresses, displaying bare arms and dazzling shoulders. The men are in showy, uniforms, glittering with stars and decorations. Orange, Brunswick, Nassau, English, Belgian, Scottish, French. All are there, gay with gold and silver braid. The confusion of tongues is greater, surely, than round the Tower of Babel. German and French and English,

Scots accent, and Irish brogue, pedantic Hanoverian, and Lussela. dusty Brunswick tones, all and more of these varied sounds mingle with one another, and half-drown by their clamor, the sweet strains of the Viennese orchestra that discoursed dreamy waltzes from behind a bower of crimson roses, whilst ponderous Flemish wives of city burgomesters, gaze open-mouthed at the elegant ladies of the old French nobles, and shy Belgian misses peep enviously at their more self-reliant English friends. And the hostess smiles equally graciously to all. She is ready with a bright word of welcome for everybody now, just as she will be anon with a mute look of farewell, when at 10 o'clock by Wellington's commands, one by one, one officer after another, will slip out of this hospitable house out into

the rainy night for a hurried visit to lodgings or barracks to collect a few necessaries, and then to work, to horse or march, to form into the ranks of battle as they had formed for the quadrille, squares to face the enemy, advance, deploy, as they had done in the mazes of the dance, to fight as they had danced, to give their life as they had given a kiss. Bobby Clifford only saw Crystal de Cambre from afar. He had his commission in Colin Halkett's brigade. His orders were the same as those of many others tonight to put in an appearance at her grace's ball to dispel any fears that might be confided to him through a fair partner's lips to show confidence, courage, and gaiety, and at 10 o'clock to report for duty. But the crowd in the

ballroom was great, and Crystal de Cambrai was the center of a very close and exclusive little crowd, as indeed were all the ladies of the old French nobles who were here in their numbers. They had left their country in the wake of their dethroned king, and despite the anxieties and sorrows of the past three months, while the star of the Corsican adventurer seemed to shine with renewed splendor, and that of the unfortunate king of France, to be more and more on the wand, they had somehow filled the sleepy towns of Belgium, Ghent, Brussels, Charleroy, with the atmosphere of their own elegance and their unimpeachable good taste. Clifford knew that the Comte de Cambrai had settled in Brussels with his daughter and sister,

pending the new turn in the fortunes of his cause. the English colony there provided the royalist fugitives with many friends, and Ghent was already over full with the immediate entourage of the king. But Bobby had never met either the Comte or Crystal again. He had crossed over to England almost directly after that final and fateful interview with them. He had obtained his commission and was back again in Belgium as a fighting man ready for the work which was expected from Britain's sons by the whole of Europe now. And tonight he saw her again. His instinct, intuition, prescience, what you will, had told him that he would meet her here. And to his weary eyes, when first he, he was, he would meet her here. And to his weary eyes,

when first he caught sight of her across the crowded room, she had never seemed more exquisite, nor more desirable. She was dressed all in white, with arms and shoulders bare. Her fair hair dressed in the quaint mode of the moment with a high comb and a multiplicity of curls. She had a bunch of white roses in her belt and carried a shawl of gossip, or lace that encircled her shoulders like a diaphanous cobweb, through which gleamed the shimmering whiteness of her skin. She did not see him, of course. He was only one of so many in a crowd of English officers who were about to fight and to die for her country and her cause as much

as for their own. But to him, she was the only living, breathing person in the room. All the others were phantoms or puppets that had no tangible existence for him, save as a setting, a background for her. And poor Bobby would so gladly have thrown all pride to the winds for the right to run straight to her across the width of the room, to fall at her feet, to encircle her knees, and to ring from her a word of comfort or of trust. So strong was this impulse that for one moment it seemed absolutely irresistible. But the next, she had turned to Marie's Day St. Genes, who was never absent from her side, and who seemed to hover over her with an air of proprietorship and of triumphant mastery, which caused poor Bobby to grind his heel into the oak floor,

and to smother a bitter curse which had risen insistent to his lips. Madame La Duchess de Ajan spoke to him once, while he stood by watching Crystal's dainty form, walking through the mazes of a quadrille with her hand in that of St. Genus. They look well matched, do they not? Mr. Clifford, Madame said in broken English, and with something of her usual tartness. And you? Are you not going to recognize old friends, may I ask? He turned abruptly, whilst the hot blood rushed up to his cheek.

So sudden had been the wave of memory. which flooded his brain at the sound of Madame's sharp voice. Now he stooped and kissed the slender little hand, which was being so cordially held out to him. Old friends, Madame La Duchess, he queried with a quick sigh of bitterness, Nay, you forget that it was as a traitor and a liar that you knew me last.

It was as a young fool that I knew you, all the time, she retorted tartly, even though a kindly look and a kindly smile tempered the gruffness of her sally. The male creature, my dear Mr. Clifford, she added, was intended by God and by nature to be a selfish beast. When he ceases to think of himself, he loses his bearings, flounders in a quagmire of unprofitable heroism which benefits no one and generally behaves like a fool. Did I do all that? asked Clifford with a smile, all of it and more, and look at the muddle you have made of things. Crystal has never got over that miserably aborted engagement of hers to de Marmont and is no happier now with Marie's Day St. Genis than

she would have been with, well, with anybody else who had had the good sense to woo and win her in a straightforward, proper, and selfish, masculine way. Mademoiselle de Cambrey, I understand, rejoined Clifford St.ffey, is formally affianced now to Massaure de St. Genis. She is not formally affianced, as you so pedantically and effectively put it, my friend, replied Madame, with her accustomed acerbity, but she probably will marry him if he comes out of this abominable war alive, and if the King of France, whom may God protect, comes into his own again. For his majesty has taken those two young jack and apes under his most gracious protection, and has promised Maurice a lucrative appointment at his court, if he ever has a court again.

Then Mademoiselle de Cambrai must be very happy, for which, if I dare say so, I am heartily rejoiced. So am I, said the Duchess dryly, but let me at the same time tell you this. I have always known that Englishmen were peculiarly idiotic in certain important matters of life, but I must say that I had no idea idiocy could reach the boundless proportions, which it has done in your case. Well, she added with sudden gentleness, farewell for the present Montprew Chevalier. It is not too late, remember, to bear in mind certain. old axioms, both of chivalry and of common sense, the most obvious of which is that nothing is

gained by sitting open-mouthed whilst someone else gets the largest helpings at supper. And if it is any comfort to you to know that I never believed St. Genesis's story of lonely ends of murderous banditti and what-nots, well then I give you that information for what you may choose to make of it. And with a final friendly nod and a gentle pressure of her aristocratic hand on his, which warmed and comforted Bobby's sore heart, she turned away from him and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd. In spite of rain and blustering wind, outside. The fine ballroom, as the evening progressed, became unpleasantly hot. Dancing was in full swing, and the orchestra had just struck up the first strains of that

inspiriting new dance, the latest importation from Vienna, a dreamy waltz of which dowagers strongly disapproved, deeming it licentious, indecent, and certainly ungraceful, but which the young folk delighted in and persisted in dancing, defying the mamas and all. The proprieties, Marie's Day St. Janus, after the last quadrille, had led Crystal away from the ballroom to a small boudoir adjoining it, where the cool air from outside fanned the curtains and hangings, and stirred the leaves and petals of a bank of roses that formed a background to a couple of seats, obviously arranged for the convenience of two persons who desired quiet conversation well away from prying eyes and ears. Here, Crystal, had been sitting with Maurice for the past

quarter of an hour, while from the ballroom close by came as in a dream to her the gentle lilt of the waltz, and from behind her a cluster of sweet-scented crimson. roses fill the air with their fragrance. Crystal didn't feel that she wanted to talk, only to sit here quietly with the sound of the music in her ears and the scent of roses in her nostrils. Maurice sat beside her, but he did not hold her hand. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and he talked much and earnestly. The while she listened half absently, like one in a dream. She had often heard, in the olden days in England, her aunt speak of the strange doings of that Dr. Mesmer in Paris, who had even involved proud Marie Antoinette in an unpleasant scandal

with his weird incantations and wizard-like acts, where he had even involved proud Marie Antoinette in an unpleasant scandal with his weird incantations and wizard-like acts, whereby people, sensible women and men, were sent at his will into a curious torpor, which was neither sleep nor yet wakefulness, and which produced a yet more strange sense of unreality and dreaminess, and visions of things unsubstantial and unearthly, and sitting here surrounded with roses and with that language. lilt in her ear, Crystal felt as if she, too, were under the influence of some unseen mesmer, who had lulled the activity of her brain into a kind of wakeful sleep, even while her senses remained keenly, vitally on the alert. She knew, for instance, that Marie spoke of the coming

struggle, the final fight for king and country. He had been enrolled in a Nassau regiment under the command of the Prince of Orange. He expected to be in the thick of a fight tomorrow. Bonaparte never waits. Crystal heard him say quite distinctly, he is always ready to attack. Audacity and a bold use of his artillery were always his most effectual weapons. And he went on to tell her of his own plans, his future, his hopes. He spoke of the possibility of death and of this being a last farewell. Crystal tried to follow him, tried to respond when he spoke of his love for her, a love, the strength of which he said she would never be able to gauge. If it were not for the strength of my love for you, Crystal, he said almost fiercely,

I could not bear to face possible death tomorrow, not without telling you, not without making reparation for my sin. And still in that curious, trance-like sense of aloofness, Crystal murmured vaguely, sin, Maurice, what sin do you mean? But he did not seem to give her a direct reply. He spoke once more, only of his love. Love atones for all sins. He reiterated once or twice with passionate earnestness. Even God puts love above everything on earth. Love is an excuse for everything. Love justifies everything. Such love as I have for you, Crystal, makes everything else, even sin, even cowardice, seem insignificant and meaningless. She agreed with what he said, for indeed, she felt too tired to argue the point,

or even to get his sophistry into her head. Strangely enough, she felt out of tune with him tonight, with him, Marie's, the lover of her girlhood, the man from whom she had parted with such desperate, heartache three months ago in the avenue at Brestolo. Then it had seemed as if the world could never hold any happiness for her again. Once Marys had gone out of her life, now he had come back into it. Chance and the favor of the king had once more made a future happy union with him impossible. She ought to have been supremely happy, yet she was out of tune. His passionate words of love found only a cold response in her heart. For the past three months, she had constantly been at war

with her own self for this. She hated and despised herself for that numbness of the heart, which had so unaccountably taken all the zest and the joy out of her life. Does one love one day and become indifferent the next? What had become of the girlish love that had invested Marie's Day St. Genis with the attributes of a hero? What had he done that the pedestal on which her ideality had hoisted him should have proved of such brittle clay? He was still the gallant, high-born, well-bred gentleman, whom she should have proved. she had always known. He was on the eve of fighting for his king and country, ready to give his life for the same cause which she loved so ardently. He was even now speaking tender words of love

and of farewell, yet she was out of tune with him. His words of love almost irritated her, for they dragged her out of that delicious dreamlike torpor which momentarily peopled the world for her with gold-headed, white-winged, mysterious angels, and filled the air with soft murmurings and sweet sounds and a divine fragrance that was not of this earth. It must have been that she grew very sleepy, probably the heat weighed her eyelids down. Certainly she found it impossible to keep her eyes open, and Maris apparently thought that she felt faint. Always in the same vague way she heard him making suggestions for her comfort. Could he get her some wine, or should he try and find Madame La Duchess? Then she realized how she longed for a little rest,

for perfect solitude, for perfect freedom to give herself over to the sweet torpor which paralyzed her brain and limbs, tired, sleepy, or under the subtle influence of some mysterious agency, she did not know which she was, but she did know that she would have given everything she could at this moment for a few minutes' complete solitude. she contrived to smile and to look up almost gaily into Maris's anxious face. I think really, Maris, she said, I am just a little bit sleepy. If I could remain alone for five minutes, I would go honestly to sleep and not be ashamed of myself. Could you? Could you just leave me for five or ten minutes? And, and Maris, will you draw that screen a little?

nearer, she added, affecting a little yawn. Nobody can see me then. And really, really, I shall be all right. If I could have a few minutes quiet sleep. You shall, Crystal, of course you shall, said Maurice, eager and anxious, to do all that she wanted. He arranged a cushion behind her head, put a footstool to her feet, and pulled the screen forward so that now where she sat, no one could see her from the ballroom. And as in response to repeated encores from the dancers, the orchestra had embarked upon a new waltz. She was not likely to be disturbed. I'll try and find Madame La Duchess, he said, after he had assured himself that she was quite comfortable, and tell her that you are quite well, but must not be disturbed. She,

caught his hand and gave it a little squeeze. You are kind, Maris, she murmured. She felt exactly like a tired child, now that she had been made so comfortable, and she liked Maris so much. Oh, so much. No brother could have been dearer. You won't go away without waking me, Maris, she said as he bent down to kiss her. No, no, of course not, he replied. It's Dill wants a quarter before ten. The screen shut off all the glare from the candles. The sense of isolation was complete and delicious. The roses smelt very sweet. The soft strains of the waltz sounded like elfin music. Like elfin music, tender, fitful, dreamy, and exquisite langor stole into crystal's limbs. She was not asleep, yet she was in dreamland.

all alone in semi-darkness that was restful and soothing, and with the fragrance of crimson roses in her nostrils and their velvety petals brushing against her cheek. Like elfin music, sweet strains of infinite sadness, the tune of the infinite mingling with the semblance of reality. Like elfin music, or like the voice of a human being in pain, the note of sadness became the only real note. Now, what really happened after this? Crystal never rightly knew. Whenever in the future, her memory went back to this hour, she could not be sure whether in truth she had been waking or dreaming, or at what precise moment she became fully conscious of a presence close beside her, just behind the bank of roses.

and of a voice, low, earnest, quivering with passionate emotion, that reached her ear as if through the tender melodies played by the orchestra. It almost seemed to her when she thought over all the circumstances in her mind that she must have been subtly conscious of the presence all along, all the while that Maurice was still with her, and she felt so curious. languid, longing only for darkness and solitude. Something encompassed her now that she could not define, the warmth of love, the sense of protection and security, almost as if unseen arms that were strong and devoted, and selfless held her closely, shielding her from evil and from the taint of selfish human passions. And presently, she heard her name, whispered low, and with a note of

tender appeal. Her eyes were closed, and she paid no heed. But the appeal was once more whispered, this time more insistently, and almost against her will, she murmured, who calls? An unfortunate whom you hate and despise, and who would have given his life to serve you. Who is it? She reiterated. A poor heartbroken wretch who could not keep away from your side and longed for one more sound of your voice, even though it uttered words more cruel than man can stand. What would you like to hear? One word of comfort to ease that terrible sting of hate which has burned into my very soul till every minute of life. life has become unendurable agony. How could I know? She asked, and now her eyes were wide open, gazing out into nothingness, not turned yet in the direction whence that dream voice came. How could I know that my hatred made you suffer, or that you cared for comfort from me? How could you know, Crystal, the voice replied, you could know that, my dearly.

just as surely as you know that in a stormy night the sky is dark. Just as you know that when heavy clouds obscure the blue ether above, no ray of sunshine warms the shivering earth. Just as you know that you are beautiful and exquisite. So you knew, Crystal, that I loved you from the deepest depths of my soul. How could I guess? By that subtle sense. sense which every human being has, and you did guess it, Crystal, else you would not have hated me as you did. I hated you because I thought you a traitor. Is it too late to swear to you that my only thought was to serve you? By working against my king and country, she retorted, with just this one brief flash of her old vehemence, by working for my country.

And for yours, this I swear by your sweet eyes, by your dear mouth that hurt me so cruelly that evening. I swear it by the damnable agony which you made me endure, by the abject cowardice which dragged me to your side now, like a whining wretch that craves for a crumb of comfort. By all that you have made me suffer, Crystal, I swear to you that I will. was never false. False, great God, when with every drop of my blood, with every fiber of my heart, with every nerve, every sinew, every thought, I love you. The voice was so low, never above a whisper, and all around her, Crystal felt again that delicious sense of warmth, the breath of love that brings man's heart so near to God, the sense of security.

in a man's all-encompassing love, which women prize above everything else on earth. The music was just an accompaniment to that low, earnest whispering. The soft strains of the violins made it still seem like a voice that comes through a veil of dreams. Instinctively, Crystal began to hum the waltz tune and her little head with its quaint coronet of fair, girls beat time to the languid lilt. Will you dance with me, Crystal? No, no, she protested. Just once, tonight. Tomorrow we fight. Let us dance tonight. And before she could protest further, her will seemed to fall away from her. She knew that her father, her aunt would be angry, that, as like as not, Maris would make a scene. She knew that Maris,

to whom she had plighted her trough, had branded this man as a liar and a traitor. Her father believed him to be a traitor, and she, well, what had he done to disprove Marisa's accusations? A few words of passionate protestations. Did they count? He wore his king's uniform. Many careless adventurers did that, these strenuous times. and he wanted her to dance.

How could she, Crystal the Cambrai, the future wife of the Marquis de Saint-Genis, the sinisher of a great many eyes tonight, how could she show herself in public on his arm in a crowded ballroom? Yet she could not refuse, she could not. Surely it was all a dream, and in a dream, man is but the slave of circumstance,

and has no will of his own. She was very young and loved to dance, and she had heard that Englishman danced well. Besides, it was all a dream. She would wake in a moment or two and find herself sitting quietly among the roses with Maurice beside her, telling her of his love and of their happy future together. But in the meanwhile, the dream was lasting. Her partner was a perfect dancer, and this new delicious waltz, in spiriting yet languorous, rhythmical and half barbaric, sent a keen feeling of joy and of zest into Crystal's whole being. She was not conscious of the many stairs that were leveled at her as she suddenly appeared among the crowd in the ballroom. Her face flushed with excitement, her perfect figure, moving with

exquisite grace to the measure of the dance, the last dance together. A few moments before, Clifford had made his way to the small boudoir in search of fresh air, and had withdrawn to a window embrasure away from a throng that maddened him in his misery of loneliness. Then he realized that Crystal was sitting quite close to him, that St. Genis, who had been in constant attention, on her presently left her to herself, and that without even moving from where he was, he could whisper into her ear, that which had lain so heavily on his heart, that at times he had felt that it must break under the intolerable load. Then as the soft strains of the music from the orchestra struck upon his ear, the insistent whim seized him,

to make her dance with him just once tonight. Tomorrow, the cannon would roar once more. Tomorrow, Europe would make yet another stand against the bold adventurer whom seemingly nothing could crush. Tomorrow, a bullet, a bayonet, a sword-thrust, but tonight a last dance together. Those whims come at times to those who are doomed to die. Clifford's one hope of peace lay in death upon the battlefield.

Life was empty now. He had fought against the burden of loneliness left upon him when Crystal passed finally out of his life, but the burden had proved unconquerable. Only death could ease him of the load, for life like this was stupid and intolerable. men would die within the next few days in their hundreds and in their thousands, men who were happy, who had wives and children, men on whose lives love shed its happy radiance, then why not he, who was more lonely than any man on earth, left lonely because the one woman who filled all the world for him, hated him, and was gone from him forever.

But a last dance with her tonight, the right to hold her in his arms. This he had never done, though his muscles had often ached with the longing to hold her. But dancing with her, he could feel her against him, clasp her closely, feel her breath against his cheek. She was not very tall, and her head, had she chosen, could have just rested in the hollow of his shoulder. the thought of it sent the blood rushing hotly to his head, and with his two strong hands, he would at that moment have bent a bar of iron or smashed something to Adams in order to crush that longing to curse against fate, against his destiny that had so wantonly dangled happiness before him, only to thrust him into utter loneliness again.

Then he spoke to her and finally asked for the dance, and now he held her and guided her through the throng, her tiny feet moving in unison with his, and all the world had vanished. He had her to himself for these few happy moments he could hold her and refused to let her go. He did not care, nor did she, that many curious and some angry glances followed their every movement, till the last bar was played, till the final chord was struck, she was absolutely his, for she had given up her will to him. The last dance together, he sent his heart to her, all his heart, and the music helped him, and the rhythm, the very atmosphere of the room, Rose-scented, helped him to make her understand. He could have kissed her hair so close were the heaped-up

fair curls to his mouth. He could have whispered to her, and nobody would hear. He could have told her something at any rate of that love which had filled his heart since all time, not months or years since he had known her, but since all time filling every minute of his life, he could have taught her what love meant, thrilled her heart with thoughts of might have been. He could have roused sweet pity in her soul, Love's gentle mother that has the power to give birth to love. But he did not kiss her, nor did he speak, because though he was quite sure that she was, understand, he was equally sure that she could not respond. She was not his, not his in the world of realities at any rate. Her heart belonged to the friend of her childhood, the only man whom she would

ever love, the man by whom he, poor Bobby, had been content to be defamed and vilified in order that she should remain happy in her ideals and in her. her choice. So he was content only to hold her, his arm round her waist, one hand holding hers imprisoned, she herself becoming more and more the creature of his dreams, the angel that haunted him in wakefulness and in sleep. Immortally, his bride, yet never to be holy his again as she was now in this heavenly moment where they stood together within the pale of eternity. In this, their last dance together. Far into the night, into the small hours of the morning, Crystal de Cambre sat by the open window of her tiny bedroom in the small apartment, which her father had taken for himself and his family

in the Rue du Moray. She sat with one elbow resting on the window-scent. her right-hand fingering with nervy, febrile movements, a letter which she held. Jean had handed it to her when she came home from the ball. Massaure de St. Janus, Jane explained, had given it to her earlier in the evening. Soon after 10 o'clock, it must have been. M.aer Le Marquis seemed in a great hurry, but he made Jean swear most solemnly. that Mademoiselle Crystal should have the letter as soon as she came home. Also, Monsieur Le Marquis had insisted that the letter should be given to mademoiselle when she was

alone. Not a little puzzled, for had she not taken fond leave of Maurice shortly before 10 o'clock when he had told her that his orders were to quit the ball then and report himself at once, at headquarters. He had seemed very despondent, Crystal thought, and the words which he spoke, when finally he kissed her, had in them all the sadness of a last farewell. Crystal even had felt a tinge of remorse when she saw how sad he was that she had not responded more warmly to his kiss. It almost seemed as if her heart rebelled against it, and when he pressed her with his accustomed, passionate ardor to his breast, she had felt a curious shrinking within herself, a desire to push him away, even though her whole heart went out to him with pity and with sorrow.

And now here was this letter. Crystal was a long time before she made. up her mind to open it. The paper, damp with the rain, seemed to hold a certain fatefulness within its folds. At last, she read the letter, and long after she had read it, she sat at the open window, listening to the dreary, monotonous patter of the rain, and to the distant sounds of moving horses and men, the rattle of wheels, the bugle calls, the departure of the allied troops to meet the armies of the great adventurer on the billowing plains of Belgium. This is what Marys had written to her a few moments before he left, and it must have taken

him some time to pen the lengthy epistle. My beautiful crystal, I may never come back. Something tells me that my life, such as it is, empty and worthless enough, God knows, has nearly run its full course. But if I do come back to claim the happiness which your love holds out for me, I will not face you again with so deep a stain upon mine honor. I did not tell you before because I was too great a coward. I could not bear to think that you would despise me. I could not encounter the look of contempt in your eyes. So I remained silent to the call of honor. And now I speak because the next few hours will atone for everything. If I come back, you will forgive. If I fall, you will mourn. In either case, I shall be happy

that you know. Crystal, in all my life, I spoke only one lie. And that was three months ago, when I set out to reclaim the king's money, which had been filched from you on the high road, and returned empty-handed. I found the money, and I found the thief. No thief, he, Crystal, but just a chaotic man who desired to serve his country, our cause, and you. That man was your friend, Mr. Clifford. I don't think that I was ever jealous of him. I am not jealous of him. I am not jealous of now. Our love, Crystal, is too great and too strong to fear rivalry from anyone. He had taken the money from you because he knew that Victor de Marmont, with a strong body of men to help him, would have filched it from you for the benefit of the Corsican. He took the money from you because he

knew that neither you nor the Comte would have listened to any warnings from him. He took the money from you with the sole purpose of conveying it to the king. Then I found him and taunted him until the temptation came to me to act the part of a coward and a traitor. And this I did, Crystal, only because I loved you, because I knew that I could never win you while I was poor and in humble circumstances. I soon found out that Clifford was a friend. I soon found out that Clifford was a friend, I begged him to let me have the money so that I might take it to the king and earn consideration and a reward thereby. That was my sin, Crystal, and also that I lied to you to disguise the sorry role which I had played. Clifford gave me the money because I told him how we loved one another,

you and I, and that happiness could only come to you through our own. mutual love. He acted well, though in truth I meant to do him no wrong. Later, Victor de Marmont came upon me and rested the money from me, and I was helpless to guard that for which I had played the part of a coward. I have eased my soul by telling you this, Crystal, and I know that no hard thoughts of me will dwell in your mind whilst I do all that a man can do for honor, king, and country. Remember that the next few hours, perhaps, will atone for everything, and that love excuses all things, yours in love and sorrow, Maurice. The letter, crumpled and damp, remained in Crystal's hand all the while that she sat by the open window,

and the sound of moving horses and men in the distance conjured up before her eyes mental visions of all that tomorrow might mean. The letter was damp with her tears now. They had fallen incessantly on the paper while she reread it a second time and then re-read it again. A chaotic man, Maris said airily, how little he understood, how well she, Crystal knew what had been the motive of that chaotic action. She had learned so much tonight in the mazes of a waltz. Now, when she closed her eyes, she could still feel the dreamy motion with that strong arm round her, and she could hear the sweet, languid lilt of the music, and all the delicious, elvish whisperings that reached her ear through the monotonous cadence of the

dance of what her heart had felt then. She need now no longer be ashamed. All that should shame her now were her thoughts in the past, the belief that the hand which had held hers on that evening long ago in Brestolo could possibly have been the hand of a traitor, that the low-toned voice that spoke to her so earnestly of friendship then could ever be raised for the utterance of a lie. Of such thoughts, indeed, she could be ashamed, and of her cruelty that other night in Paris when she had made him suffer so abominably through her injustice and her contempt. The next few hours, perhaps, will atone for everything. Maris had added, ah, well, perhaps, but they could not erase the past. They could not control the more

distant future. Maris would come back. Crystal prayed earnestly that he should, but Clifford was gone out of her life forever. God alone knew how this renewed war would end. How could she hope ever to meet a friend who had gone away determined never to see? see her again. A last dance together. Well, they had had it, and that was the end, the end of a sweet romance that had had no beginning. He had gone now, as Maurice had gone, as all the men had gone, who had listened to their country's call, and she, Crystal, could not convey to him even by a message by a word that she understood all that he had done for her, all that his actions had meant of devotion, of self-effacement, of pure and tender love, a last dance together, and that had been

the end. Even thoughts of him would be forbidden her after this, for her thoughts were no longer free of him. Her heart was no longer free. Her heart was no longer free. Her promise belonged to Maurice, but her heart, her thoughts were no longer hers to give. It was all too late. Too late. The next few hours might atone for the past, but they could not call it back. Weary and heart-sick, crystal crawled into bed when the gray light of dawn peeped cold and shy into her room. She could not sleep, but she lay quite still. while one by one those distant sounds died away in the misty morning. In this semi-dream-like state, it seemed to her as if she must be able to distinguish the sound

of his horse's hooves from among a thousand others. It seemed as if something in herself must tell her quite plainly where he was, what he did. when he got to horse, which way he went, and presently she closed her eyes against the gray, monotonous light, and during one brief moment she felt deliciously conscious of a sweet, protecting presence somewhere near her, of soft whisperings of fondness and of friendship. The sound of a dream voice reached her ear, and once again, as in the sweet-scented alcove, She felt herself murmuring, who calls? And once more she heard the tender wailing as of a stricken soul in pain, a poor heartbroken wretch who could not keep away from your side. And memory echoes

lingered round her, bringing back every sound of his mellow voice, every look in his eyes, the touch of his hand. Oh, that exquisite touch. And his last, words before he asked her to dance with every drop of my blood with every nerve, every sinew, every thought, I love you. And her heart, with a long, drawn-out moan of unconquerable sorrow, sent out into the still morning air its agonized call in reply, Come back, my love, come back. I cannot live without you. You have taught me what love is. You have taught me what love is pure, selfless, and protecting. You cannot go from me now. You cannot. In the name of that love which your tender voice has brought into being, come back to me. Do not leave me desolate.

End of chapter 8. Chapter 9 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orxy. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Dionne's Settlic City, Utah. The Tarpean Rock. Rain, rain all the morning. God's little tool, innocent-looking little tool enough for the remodeling of the destinies of this world. God chose to soak the earth on that day and the formidable artillery that had swept the plateau of Austerlitz, the veils of Marengo, the cemetery of Ilaw, was rendered useless for the time being because up in the inscrutable kingdom of the sky, a cloud had chosen to burst, or had burst by the will of God, and water soaked the soft, spongy soil of Belgium, and the wheels of artillery wagons sank axle-deep in the mud.

If only the ground had been dry. If only the great gambler, the genius, the hero, call him what you will, but the gambler for all that, if only he had staked his crown, his honor, and that of Imperial France on some other stake than his artillery. if only, but who shall tell? Is it indeed a cloudburst that changed the whole destinies of Europe? Ye materialists, ye philosophers, answer that, is it to the rain that fell in such torrents until close on midday of that stupendous

18th of June? That must be ascribed this wonderful and all-embracing change. that came over the destinies of myriads of people, of entire nations, kingdoms, and empires. Rather, is it not because God, just on that day, of all days, chose to show this world of Pygmy's great men, valiant heroes, controlling genius, and all powerful conquerors, the entire extent of his might. So far and no further. and in order to show it, he selected that simple, seemingly futile means just a heavy shower of rain. At half-past eleven, the cannon began to roar on the plains of Mont Saint John, but not before.

Before that, it had rained, rained heavily, and the ground was soaked through, and the all-powerful artillery of the most powerful military genius of all times was momentarily powerless. Had it not reigned so persistently and so long, that same compelling artillery would have begun its devastating work earlier in the day at six mayhap, or mayhap at dawn, another five, six, seven hours to add to the length of that awful day. Another five, six, seven hours wherein to tax the tenacity, the heroic persistence of the British troops. Another five, six, seven hours of dogged resistance on the one side of impetuous charges on the other before the arrival of Blucher and his Prussians and the turning of the scales of blind justice against the daring gambler who had staked his all. But it was only at

half-past eleven that the cannon began to roar, and the undulating plain carried the echo like a thunder roll from heaving billow to heaving billow till it broke against the silent majesty of the Forest of Sonay. Here with the forest as a background is the highest point of Mont Saint-Jean, and here beneath an overhanging elm, all day on horseback, anxious, frigid, and heroic, is Wellington, with a rain of bullets all round him, watching, ceaselessly watching that horizon far away, wrapped now in fog anon in smoke and soon in gathering darkness watching for the promised prussian army that was to ease the terrible burden of that desperate stand which the british troops were bearing and had borne all day with such unflinching courage and dogged tenacity it is in vain that his aides-de-camp beg him to move away

from that perilous position. My Lord, cries Lord Hill at last in desperation. If you are killed, what are we to do? The same as I do now, replies Wellington, unmoved, hold this place to the last man. Then with a sudden outburst of vehemence that seems to pierce almost involuntarily the rigid armor of British phlegm

and British self-control, he calls to his old comrades of Salamanca and Victoria. Boys, which of us now can think of retreating? What would England think of us if we do? Heroic, unflinching, and cool, the British army has held its ground against the overwhelming power of Napoleon's magnificent cavalry. Raw recruits, some of them, against the veterans of. of Jenna and of Wagram. But they have been ordered to hold the place to the last man,

and in close and serried squares, they have held their ground ever since half-past eleven this morning, while one after another the flower of Napoleon's world-famed cavalry has been hurled against them. Currasiers, chaucers, chasseurs, lancers, up they come to the charge, like whirlwinds up the declivities of the plateau. Like a whirlwind, they rush upon those stolid, immovable, impenetrable squares, attacking from every side, making violent, obstinate, desperate onsets upon the stubborn angles, the straight, unshakable walls of red coats, slashing at the bayonets

with their swords at crimson breasts, with their lances, firing their pistols right between those glowing eyes, right into those firm jaws and set teeth. The sound of bullets on breastplates and helmets and epaulets is like a shower of hellstones upon a sheet of metal. Twice, thrice, nay more, a dozen times they return to the charge, and the plateau gleams with brandished steel like a thousand flashes of simultaneously. fortaneous fork lightning on the vast canopy of a stormy sky. From midday till after four, a kind of mysterious haze covers this field of noble deeds. Fog, after the rain, wraps the gently billowing flemish ground in a white semi-transparent veil, covers with impartial coolness, all the mighty actions, the heroic charges, and still more heroic stands, all the silent, uncomplaining

sufferings, the glorious deaths, all the courage, and all the endurance. Through the gray mess, we see a medley of moving colors, blue and gray and scarlet and black, of chakos and sabretasches, of English and French, and Hanoverian, and Scotch, of Apollets, and bare knees. We hear the sound of carbine and artillery fire, the clank of swords and bayonets, the call of bugle and trumpet, and the wail of the melancholy pyebrotch, tunics and gold tassels and kilts, a melody of sounds and of visions. We see the attack on Hugelmont, the appearance of Bulo on the heights of St. Lambert, the charge of the Innes Killings and the Scots graze, the death of valiant Ponsonby. We see Marshal Ney, Prince of Moscow, the bravest soldier in France.

We see him everywhere where the Malay is thickest, everywhere where danger is most nigh. His magnificent uniform torn to shreds, his gold lace tarnished, his hair and whiskers singed. His face blackened by powder, indomitable, unconquerable, superb. We hear him cry, where are those British bullets? Is there not one left for me? He knows, none better, that the plains of Mont Saint-Jean are the great gambling tables on which the supreme gambler, Napoleon, once emperor of the French and master of half the world had staked his all. If we come out of this alive and conquered, he cries to Hamas, his aide-de-camp, there will be only the hangman's rope left for us all.

And we see the gambler himself, Napoleon, emperor still, and still certain of victory, on horseback all day, riding from end to end of his lines. He is gayer than he has ever been before. At Marengo, he was despondent. At Austerlitz, he was troubled. But at Waterloo, he has no doubts. The star of his destiny has risen more brilliant than ever before. The day of France's glory has only just dawned, he calls, and his mind is full of projects. The triumphant march back into Paris. The Germans, driven back to the Rhine, the English to the sea. His only anxiety, and it is a slight one still, is that Grouchy, with his fresh troops, is so late in arriving. Still, the Prussians are late, too, and the British cannot hold the place forever. At three o'clock the fog lifts, the veil that has wrapped so many sounds, such awful and wonderful visions in a kind of mystery, is lifted now, and it reveals what? Hougomont invested, brave bearing there with a handful of men,

English, German, Brunswickians, making a last stand with ten rounds of ammunition left to them per man, and the French engineers already battering in the gates of the enclosing wall that surrounds the chateau and chapel of Gumont, the farm of Lahais, St. Taken. Nay, there with his regiment of Corraceers, and five battalions of the old guard, and the English lines on the heights of Mont Saint-Jean, apparently giving way. we see too a vast hecatom, glory and might, must claim their many thousand victims. The dead and dying lie scattered like ponds upon an abandoned chessboard. The humble ponds in this huge and final gamble for supremacy and power for national existence

and for liberty. Hougomont, La Hay Saint, Papelot, are sewn. with illustrious dad. But on the plateau of Mont Saint-Jean, the British still hold their ground. Wellington is still there on the heights, with the majestic trees of Soniae behind him, the stately canopy of the elm above his head, more frigid than before, more heroic, but also more desperately anxious. Blucher or nightfall, he sighs as a fresh, cavalry charge is hurled against those indomitable British squares, the 13th assault, and still they stand or kneel on one knee, those gallant British boys, bayonet in hand,

or carbine they fire, fall out and reform again, shaken, hustled, encroached on they may be, but still they stand and fire with coolness and precision. The ranks are not broken yet. Officers ride up to the field marshal to tell him that the situation has become desperate. Their regiments decimated, their men exhausted. They ask for fresh orders, but he has only one answer for them. There are no fresh orders save to hold out to the last man. And down in the valley at La Belle Alliance is the great gambler, the man who today will either be emperor again, a greater, mightier monarch than even he has ever been, or who will sink to a status which perhaps the meanest of his erstwhile subjects would never envy. But just now,

at four o'clock, when the fog has lifted, he is flushed with excitement. exalted in the belief in victory. The English center on Mont Saint-Jean is giving way at last, he is told. The beginning of retreat, he cries, and he, who had been anxious at Austrolet's, despondent at Marengo, is gay and happy and brimming full of hope. De Marmont, he calls to his faithful friend. De Marmont, go ride to Paris now. Tell them, that victory is ours. No, no, he adds excitedly, don't go all the way, ride to Gennap, and send a message to Paris from there, then come back to be with us in the hour of victory. And Victor de Marmont rides off in order to proclaim to the world at large the great victory,

which the emperor has won this day over all the armies of Europe, banded. and coalesced against him. From far away on the road of O'Wan has come the first rumor that Bluker and his body of Prussians are nigh, still several hours march from Waterloo, but advancing, advancing. For hours Wellington has been watching for them until wearily he has sighed, Blucher or Nightfall alone can save us from annihilation now. The rumor, It was merely the whispering of the wind, but still a rumor, nevertheless, means fresh courage to tired, half-spent troops. Even deeds of unparalleled heroism need the stimulus of renewed hope sometimes. The rumor has also come to the ears of the emperor, of nay, and of all the officers

of the staff. They all know that those magnificent British troops, whom they have fought all day must be nigh to their final desperate effort at last, with not left to them but their stubborn courage and that tenacity which has been ever since the wonder of the world. They know these brave soldiers of Napoleon, who have fought and admired the brave foe, that the first and second lifeguards are decimated by now, that entire British and German regiments are cut up. That Picton is dead. The Scots grays almost annihilated. They know what havoc their huge cavalry charges have made in the magnificent squares of British infantry. They know that heroism and tenacity and determination must give way at last before superior numbers, before fresh

troops before persistent ever-renewed attacks. Only a few fresh troops, and Nay declares that he can conquer the final dogged endurance of the British troops before they, in their turn, received the support of Blucher and his Prussians, or before nightfall gives them a chance of rest. So he sends Colonel Hamas to his emperor with the urgent message. More troops, I entreat, more troops, and I can break the English center before the Prussians come. None knew better than he that this was the great hazard on which the life and honor of his emperor had been staked, that imperial France was fighting hand to hand with Great Britain, each for her national existence. each for supremacy and might and the honor of her flag imperial france bold daring impetuous great britain tenacious firm and impassive

wellington under the elm tree calmly scanning the horizon while bullets whizz passed around his head and ordering his troops to hold on to the last man the emperor on horseback under a hail-storm of shone shot and shell and bullets, writing from end to end of his lines. Nay, and his division of curassers and grenadiers of the old guard, had just obeyed the emperor's last orders, which had been to take Le Hay Saint at all costs, and the intrepid Marshal, now flushed with victory, had sent his urgent message to Napoleon. More troops, and I can yet break through the English center before the arrival of the Prussians. More troops, cried the emperor in despair,

where am I to get them from? Am I a creator of men? And from far away the rumor, Bluker and the Prussians are nigh. Stop that rumor from spreading to the ears of our men. In God's name, don't let them know it, adjurs Napoleon, in a message. to nay. And he himself sends his own staff officers to every point of the field of battle

to shout and proclaim the news that it is grouchy who is nigh, grouchy with reinforcements, grouchy with the victorious troops from Ligny, fresh from conquered laurels. And the news gives fresh heart to the imperial troops. Viva la Emperor, they shout, more certain than ever a victory. The gray day has yielded at last to the kiss of the sun. Far away at Brian La Aloud, a vivid streak of gold has rent the bank of heavy clouds. It is now close on seven o'clock. There are two more hours to nightfall, and Bluquer is not yet here. Some of the Prussians have certainly debouched on Pluncinoi, but Napoleon's old god. have turned them out again, and from Limall now comes the sound of heavy cannonade,

as if Grouchy had come upon Bluquer after all, and all hopes of reinforcements for the British troops were finally at an end. Napoleon, Emperor still, and still flushed with victory, looks through his glasses on the British lines. To him, it seems that these are shaken, that Wellington is fighting with the last of his men. This is the hour, then when victory awaits, attentive, ready to bestow her crown on him who can hold out and fight the longest, on him who at the last can deliver the irresistible attack. And Napoleon gives the order for the final attack,

which must be more formidable, more overpowering than any, that have gone before. The plateau of Mont Saint-Jean, he commands, must be carried at all costs. Corrissiers, Lancers, and grenadiers, then, once more to the charge. Strew once more the plains of Waterloo with your dying and your dead. Up, Milhod, with your guards. Pour it with your grenadiers. Michael, with your Chasiers. Up, ye heroes of a dozen. campaigns of a hundred victories. Up ye old growlers with the fur bonnets, Napoleon's invincible old guard, with nay himself to lead you, a hero among heroes, the bravest where all are brave. Have you ever seen a tidal wave of steel rising and surging under the lash of the gale? So they come now,

those cuirassers and lancers and chaucers, their helmets, their swords, their lances gleaming in the golden light of the sinking sun. In closed ranks, stirrup to stirrup, they swoop down into the valley and raise again scaling the muddy heights, superb as on parade, with their finest generals at their head. Milhod, Hanrian, Michael, Mallet, and nay, between them all. Splendid they are and certain a victory. They gallop past as if at a review on the Plaza S de Carousel opposite the windows of the Tulleries, all to the repeated cry of Viva la Emperor. And as they gallop past, the wounded and the dying lift themselves up from the blood-stained earth and raise their feeble voices to join in that triumphant call. Viva la Emperor. There's an old veteran there who fought at Austerlitz and at Jenna. He has three stripes upon his sleeve, but both his legs are shattered, and he lies on the roadside, propped up

against a hedge. And as the superb cavalry ride proudly by, he shouts lustily, forward comrades, a last victorious charge. Long live the Emperor. After that, who was to blame? Was human agency to blame? Did nay, the finest cavalry leader in Napoleon's magnificent army, the veteran of N hundred glorious victories, did he make the one blunder of his military career by dividing his troops into too many separate columns, rather than concentrating them for the one all-powerful attack upon the British centers? did he indeed mistake the way and lead his splendid cavalry by roundabout crossways to the plateau instead of by the straight Brussels road? Or did the obscure traitor over whom history has thrown a veil

of mystery betray this fresh advance against the British center to Wellington? Was any man to blame? Was it not rather the hand of God that had already fallen with Almighty and divine weight upon the ambitious and reckless adventurer? Was it not the voice of God that spoke to him through the cannon's roar of Waterloo? So far, but no farther shalt thou go. Enough of thy will and thy power and thy ambition, enough of this scourge of bloodshed and of misery, which I have allowed thee to wield for so long, enough of devastated homes, of starvation, and of poverty, enough of the fatherless and of the widow. And up above on the plateau, the British troops, hear the thunder of thousands of horses' hooves galloping. Galloping to this last.

charge, which must be irresistible, and sturdy, wearied hands, black with powder and stained with blood, grasp more firmly still the bayonet, the rifle, or the carbine, and they wait. Those exhausted, intrepid, valiant men, they wait for that thundering charge. With wide open eyes fixed upon the crest of the hill, they wait for the charge. They are ready for death, but they are not prepared to yield. Along the edge of the plateau in a huge semicircle that extends from Hugamont to the Brussels Road, the British gunners wait for the order to fire. Behind them, Wellington, eagle-eyed, and calm, warned by God, or by a traitor, but still by God,

of the coming assault on his positions. scours the British lines from end to end. Valiant Maitland is there with his brigade of guards, and Adam with his artillery. There are Van Dolores and Vivian's cavalry, and Colin Halcott's guards, heroes all ready to die, and hearing the approach of death in that distant roar of thunder, the onrush of Napoleon's invincible cavalry. Here, here too, further, out toward the east and the west, extending the British lines as far as Nivelles on one side and Brussels on the other, are William Halquette's Hanoverians, Duplots, German Brigade, the Dutch and the Belgians, the Brunswickers, and Umpteta's decimated corps. The French royalists are here, too,

scattered among the foreign troops, brother, prepared to fight brother to the death, St. Genis is among the Brunswickers, but Bobby Clifford is with Maitland's guards, and now the wave of steel is surging up the incline. The gleam of shining metal pierces the distant haze, casks and lances glitter in the slowly sinking sun. Whilst from billow to billow, the echo brings to straining ears, the triumphant cry, Viva la Emperor. Five minutes later, The British artillery ranged along the crest has made a huge breach in that solid, moving mass of horses and of steel. Quickly, the breach is repaired. The ranks close up again.

This is a parade, a review. The eyes of France are upon her sons and Viva la Emperor. Still they come. Volley after volley from the British guns makes deadly havoc. among those glistering ranks, but nevertheless they come. No halt save for the quick closing up into seried, orderly columns, and then on with the advance, like the surging up of a tidal wave against the cliffs, on with the advance, up the slopes toward the crest, where those who are in the front ranks are mowed down by the British guns. There are places taken by others,

from the rear. Those others mowed down again and again replaced, falling in their hundreds as they reach the crest, like the surf that shivers and dies as it strikes against the cliffs. Ney's horse is killed under him, the fifth today, but he quickly extricates himself from saddle and stirrups and continues on his way, on foot, sword in hand, the sword that conquered at Austerlitz, at Ilo, and at Moscow. Round him, the grenadiers of the old guard, they, with the fur bonnets and the grizzled moustaches, tighten up their ranks. They advance behind the cavalry, and after every volley from the British guns, they shout loudly, Viva la Emperor. And anon, the tidal wave, despite the ebb, despite the constant breaking of its surf,

has by sheer force of weight hurled itself upon the crest of the plateau. The Brunswickers on the left are scattered. Cleves and Lloyd have been forced to abandon their guns. The British artillery is silenced, and the chasseurs of Michael hold the extreme edge of the upland, and turn a deadly fusillade upon Colin Halquette's brigade already attacked by Milhod and his guards, and now severely shaken. See the English general cries Dushad to his cuirassiers. He is between two fires. He cannot escape. No, he cannot, but he ceases the colors of the 33rd, whose young lieutenant has just fallen, and who threatens to yield under the devastating crossfire.

He brandishes the tattered colors high up above his head, as high as he can hold them. He calls to his men to rally, and then falls grievously wounded. But his guards have rallied. They stand firm now, and Dushad, chewing his gray mustache, murmurs his appreciation of so gallant a foe. That side will win, he mutters. Who can best keep on killing? Up guards and at them. Maitland's brigade of guards had been crouching in the corn, crouching, waiting for the order to charge, red-coated lions in the ripening corn, ready to spring at the word, and death, the harvester in chief, stands by with his scythe ready for the mowing. Up guards and at them. It is Maitland and his gallant brigade of guards out of the corn they rise and front the three battalions of Michael's chasseurs, who were the first to reach the highest point of the hill. They fire, and death with his scythe has laid three hundred low. The tricolor flag is riddled with grape shot, and General Michael has fallen.

then indeed the mighty wave of steel can advance no longer, for it is confronted with an impenetrable wall, a wall of living, palpitating heroic men, men who for hours have stood their ground and fought for the honor of Britain and of her flag, men who with set teeth and grim determination were ready to sell their lives dearly if lives were to be sold. Men, in fact, who have had their orders to hold out to the last man and who are going to obey those orders now. Up guards and at them, and surprised, bewildered, staggered, the chasseurs pause. 300 of their comrades lie dead or dying on the ground.

They pause. their ranks are broken. With his last dying sigh, brave General Michael tries to rally them, but he breathes his last ere he succeeds. His second in command loses his head. He should have ordered a bayonet charge, sudden, swift and shore against that red wall that rushes at them with such staggering power. But he too tries to rally his men to reform their rank. And How can they reform as for parade under the deadly fire of the British guards? Confusion begins its deathly sway. The chasseurs under conflicting orders stand for full ten minutes, almost motionless, under that devastating fire. And far away on the heights of Frischemont,

the first line of Prussian bayonets are seen silhouetted against the sunset set sky. Wellington has seen it. Bloaker has come at last. One final effort, one more mighty, gigantic superhuman struggle, and the glorious end would be in sight. He gives the order for a general charge. Forward, boys, cries Colonel Sultoon to his brigade. Now is the time. Heads down, the British charge. The chasseurs are already. scattered, but behind the chasseurs, fronting Maitland's brigade, fronting Adam and his artillery, fronting Sultoon, and Colborne, the fire-eater, the old guard is seen to advance. The old guard, who through 12 campaigns and 100 victories, have shown the world how to conquer and how to die.

When Michael's chasseurs were scattered, when their general fell, when the English, lines exhausted and shaken for a moment rallied at Wellington's call up guards and at them when from far away on the heights of Freshmont the first line of Prussian bayonets were silhouetted against the sunset sky then did napoleon's old growlers with their fur bonnets and their grizzled mustaches enter the line of action to face the english guards they were facing death and knew it, but still they cried, Viva la Emperor. Heads down the British charge, whilst from Ohain comes the roar of Bluquer's guns, and up from the east, Zayton, with the Prussians, rushes up to join in the assault. Then the carnage begins, for the old guard is still advancing in solid squares, solemn, unmoved, magnificent. The bronze eagles on their bonnets catch the golden

rays of the setting sun. Thus they advance in face of deadly fire. They fall like corn before the scythe, a sublime suicide to the cry of Viva la Emperor, and not one of the brigade is missing except those who are dead. They know none better that this is the beginning of the end. Perhaps they do not care to live if their emperor is to be emperor no longer. If he is to be sent back to exile to the prison of Elba or worse, and so they advance in seried squares while Maitland's artillery has attacked them in the rear. Great gaps are made in those ranks, but they are quickly filled up again. The squares become less solid, smaller, but they remain compact. Still, they advance. But now, close behind them, Bluker's guns begin to thunder,

and Zayton's columns are rapidly gaining ground. All round, their fur bonnets, a hillstorm of grape-shot is raging, whilst Adam's artillery is in action, within. in 50 paces at their flank. But the old growlers who had suffered death with silent fortitude in the snows of Russia, who had been as grand in their defeat at Moscow and at Leipzig as they had been in the triumphs of Auerstadt or of Friedland, they neither staggered nor paused in their advance. On they went, carrying their muskets on their shoulders, a cloud of tearlers in front of them right into the crossfire of the British guns. Their loud cry of Viva La Emperor, drowning that other awesome, terrible cry, which someone had raised a while ago,

and which now went from mouth to mouth. We are betrayed. Savé Kiput. The Prussians were in their rear. The British were charging their front, and panic had seized. the most brilliant cavalry the world had ever seen. Save Kiput is echoed now and re-echoed all along the crest of the plateau, and the echo rolls down the slope into the valley, where Reel's infantry and a regiment of chorosaurs and three more battalions of chasseurs are making ready to second the assault on Mont Saint-Jean. Real and his infantry pause and listen.

The cuirassures halt in their upward movement. Whilst up on the ridge of the plateau, where Donzalot's grenadiers have attacked the brigade of Kempt and Lambert and Pack, the whisper goes from mouth to mouth, we are betrayed. Save ki put, panic seizes the younger men. They turn their horses' heads back toward the slow. The stampede has commenced. Very soon it grows. The British in front, the Prussians in the rear, Save Kiput. Nay, amongst them, is almost unrecognizable. His face is cold black with powder. He has no hat, no epaulettes, and only half a sword. Rage, anguish, bitterness are in his husky voice, as he adjures, entreats, calls to the demoralized army.

and insults it, execrates it in turn, but nothing but death will stop that army now in its headlong flight. At least stop and see how a marshal of France dies on the field of honor, he calls, but the voice which led these same men to victory at Moscow has lost its potency and its magic. The men cry vivanae, but they do not stand. The stampede has become general. In the valley below, the infantry has started to run up the slope of La Belle Alliance. After it, the cavalry, with rains hanging loose, stirrups lost, casks, sabotages, muskets, anything that impedes, thrown into the fields to right and left. La Haye Saint is evacuated. Hougamont is abandoned. Pappellot,

Ponsanoi, the woods, the plains, are only filled with running men and the thunder of galloping chargers. Alone, the old guard has remained unshaken, whilst all around them, what was once the grand army is shattered, destroyed, melting like ice before a devastating fire. They have continued to advance, sublime in their fortitude, in their endurance, their contempt for death. by one, their columns are shattered, and there are none now to replace those that fall. And as the gloom of night settles on this vast hecatom, on the plateau of Mont, St. John, the conquerors of Jenna and Austerlitz and Friedland make their last stand round the bronze eagle, all that is left to them of the glories of the past, and when from far away the cry

of Save Kiput has become only an echo and the bronze eagle shattered by a bullet lies prone upon the ground shielded against capture in its fall by a circling mountain of dead

when finally night wraps all the heroism, the glory the sorrow and the horrors of this awful day in the sable folds of her all embracing mantle. Napoleon's old guard has ceased to be. And out in the western sky, a streak of vivid crimson like human blood

has broken the bosom of the clouds. The glow of the sinking sun rests on this huge dissolution of what was once so glorious and unconquered and great. Then it is that Wellington rides to the very edge of the plateau and fronts the gallant British troops, at this supreme hour of oncoming victory, and lifting his hat high above his head, he waves it three times in the air. And from right and left, they come, British Hanoverians, Belgians, and Brunswickers

to deliver the final blow to this retreating army, wounded already unto death. They charge now, they charge all of them, cavalry, infantry, gunners, 40,000, men who have forgotten exhaustion, forgotten what they have suffered, forgotten what they had endured. On they come with a rush like a torrent let loose. The confusion of sounds and sights becomes a pandemonium of hideousness. Bougals and drums and trumpets and bagpipes all mingle, merge, and die away in the fast-gathering twilight. And the tidal wave of,

of steel recedes down the slopes of Mont Saint-Jean into the valley and fence up again on Bell Alliance with a melee of sounds like the breaking of a gigantic line of surf against the irresistible cliffs, or the last drawn-out sigh of agony of dying giants in primeval times. On the road to Gannop in the mystery of the moonlight night, a solitary rider turned into a field and dismounted, carried along for a time by the stream of the panic, he found himself for a moment comparatively alone, left as it were high and dry by the same stream, which here had divided and flowed onto right and left of him. He wore a gray redding coat and a shabby bicorn hat. Having dismounted, he slipped the bridle over his arm and started to walk beside his horse

back toward Waterloo, a sleepwalker in pursuit of his dream. Heavy banks of gray clouds chased one another with mad fury across the midsummer sky, now obscuring the cold face of the moon, now allowing her pale silvery rays to light up this gigantic panorama of desolation and terror and misery. To right and left along the roads and lanes across grassland and cornfields, canals, ditches, and fences, the last of the Grand Army was flying headlong, closely pursued by the Prussians. And at the farm of La Belle Alliance, Wellington and Bluker had met and shaken hands and had thanked God for the great and glorious victory. But the sleepwalker went on in pursuit of his dream. He walked with measured steps beside his

weary horse, his eyes fixed on the horizon far away, where the dull crimson glow of smoldering fires through its last weird light upon this vast abode of the dead and the dying. He walked on, slowly and mechanically, back to the scene of the overwhelming cataclysm, where all his hopes lay irretrievably buried. He walked on, majestic as he had never been before, in the brilliant throne room of the Tulleries, or the mystic vastness of Notre Dame. When the imperial crown sat so ill upon his plebeian head, he walked on, silent, exalted.

and great, great through the magnitude of his downfall. And to right and left of him, like the surf that recedes on a pebbly beach, the last of his once invincible army was flying back to France, back in the wake of those who had been lucky enough to fly before, bodies of men who had been the last to realize that an heroic stand round of falling eagle could, no longer win back that which was lost, and that if life be precious, it could only be had in flight. Bits of human wreckage, too, forgotten by the tide, they all rolled and rushed, and swept past the silent wayfarer, quite close at times, so close that every man could see him quite distinctly, could easily distinguish by the light of the moon, the gray redding-goat,

and the battered hat, which they all knew so well, which they had been want to see in the forefront of an hundred victorious charges. Now, half-blinded by despair and by panic, they gazed with uncomprehending eyes on the man and on the horse, and merely shouted to him as they rushed galloping or running by. The Prussians are honest, suave kiput. the dreamer still looked on that distant crimson glow, and in the bosom of those wind-swept clouds, he saw the pictures of Austerlitz and Jenna and Wagram, pictures of glory and might and victory, and the shouts which he heard were the ringing cheers round the bivouac fires of long ago. End of chapter nine.

Chapter 10, Part 1 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The Last Throw It was close on half-past nine, and the moon full up on the stormy sky, when a couple of riders detached themselves out of the surging mass of horse. and men that were flying pell-mell towards Gannap, and slightly checking their horses, put them to a slower gallop, and finally to a trot. On their right, a small cottage gleamed snow-white in the cold, searching light of the moon. A low wall ran to right and left of it,

and enclosed a small yard at the back of the cottage. The wall had a gate, in it, which gave on the fields beyond. At the moment that the two riders, trotting slowly down the road, reached the first angle of the wall, the gate was open, and a man leading a white horse and wearing a gray redding goat turned into the yard. My God, the emperor, exclaimed one of the riders as he drew rain. They both turned their horses into the field, skirting the low, enclosed wall until they reached the gate. The white horse was now tethered to a post, and the man in the gray redding goat was standing in the doorway at the rear of the cottage. The two men dismounted, and in their turn led their horses into the yard. At sight of them, the man in the gray redding goat

seemed to wake from his sleep. Berthier, he said slowly, is that you? Yes, sire, and Colonel Bertrand is here too. What do you want? We earnestly beg you, sire, to come with us to gannap. There is not the slightest hope of rallying any portion of your army now. The Prussians are on us. You might fall into their hands. Berthier, Conqueror and Prince of Wagram, spoke very earnestly and with head uncovered, but more abruptly and heartily. And, than he had been wont to do of yore in the salons of the tulleries or on the glory-crowned battlefields at the close of a victorious day i am coming i am coming said the emperor with a quick sigh of impatience i only wanted to be alone a moment to think things out too there is nothing quite so urgent sire as your safety retorted the prince of Walgram dryly, the emperor did not, or did not choose to, heed his great marshals marked want of deference. Perhaps he was accustomed to the moods of these men, whom his bounty had fed,

and loaded with wealth and dignities and titles in the days of his glory, who had proved only too ready, alas, even last year, even now, to desert him. when disaster was in sight. Without another word, he turned on his heel, and pushing open the cottage door, he disappeared into the darkness of the tiny room beyond. With an impatient shrug of the shoulders, Berthier prepared to follow him. Colonel Bertrand busied himself with tethering the horses. Then he too followed Berthier into the building. It was deserted, of course, as all isolated cottages and houses had been in the vicinity of Quattrebras or Mont Saint-Jean. Bertrand struck a tinder and lighted a tallow candle that stood forlorn on a deal table in the center of the room.

The flickering light revealed a tiny cottage kitchen, hastily abandoned but scrupulously clean, whitewashed walls, a red-tiled floor, the iron-hardtied, the painted dresser decorated with white crockery, shiny tin pans hung in rows against the walls, and two or three rush chairs. Napoleon sat down. I again entreat you, sire, began Berthier more earnestly than before, but the emperor was staring straight out before him with eyes that apparently saw something beyond that rough white wall. opposite on which the flickering candlelight threw such weird, gargantuan shadows. The precious minutes sped on, minutes wherein death or capture, strolled with giant steps,

across the fields of Flanders to this lonely cottage, where the once-mightiest ruler in Europe sat dreaming of what might have been. The silence of the night was broken by the thunder of flying horses' hood, by the cries of Save Keput and distant volleys of artillery proclaiming from far away that death had not finished all his work yet. Bertrand and Berthier stood by with heads uncovered, silent, moody, and anxious. Suddenly, the dreamer roused himself for a moment and spoke abruptly, and with his usual peremptory impatience.

de Marmont, he said, Has either of you seen him? Not lately, sire, replied Colonel Bertrand, not since five o'clock, at any rate. What was he doing then? He was writing furiously in the direction of Nivelles. I shouted to him. He told me that he was making for Brussels

by a circuitous way. Ah, that is right. Well done, my brave De Marmont. braver than your treacherous kinsman ever was. So you saw him, did you? Bertrand. Did he tell you that he had just come from Gannap? Yes, sire, he did, replied Bertrand, moodily. He told me that by your orders he had sent a messenger from there to Paris with news of your victory, and that by tomorrow morning, the capital would be ringing with enthusiasm and with cheers. And by the time De Marmont came back from Gannap interposed the prince of Wagram with a sneer, the plains of Waterloo

were ringing with the Grand Army's Savé Keput. An episode prince, only an episode, said Napoleon, with an angry frown of impatience. To hear you now, one would imagine that Esling had never been. We have been beaten back, of course, but for the moment, the world does not know that. Paris, tomorrow, will be flagged, and the bells of Notre Dame will send forth their joyous peals to cheer the hearts of my people. And in Brussels this afternoon, thousands of our enemies, Belgians, Dutch, Hanoverians, Brunswick, were rushing helter-skelter into the town, demoralized and disorganized after that brilliant charge of our cuirassiers against the allied left.

Would to God the British had been among them too, murmured old Colonel Bertrand, but for their stand, and a splendid stand it was. Ah, but for that, to think that if Grouchy had kept the Prussians away in only another hour, we. The dreamer paused in his dream of the might have been. Then he continued more calmly. But I was not thinking of that just now. I was thinking of those who fled to Brussels this afternoon with the news of our victory and of Wellington's defeat.

Even then the truth is known in Brussels by now, protested Berthier. Yes, but not before de Marmont has had the time and the pluck to save us and our empire. Berthier, he continued more vehemently. Don't stand there so gloomy, man, and you too, my old Bertrand. Surely, surely you have realized that at this terrible juncture we must utilize every circumstance which is in our favor. That early news, of our victory. We can make use of that. A big throw in this mighty game, but we can do it. Berthier, do you see how we can do it? No, sire, I confess that I do not, replied the marshal gloomily. You do not see, retorted the emperor, with a frown of angry impatience. De Marmont did at once,

but he is young and enthusiastic, whereas you. But don't, Don't you see that the news of Wellington's defeat must have enormous consequences on the money markets of the world, if only for a few hours? It must send the prices on the foreign borses tumbling about people's ears and create an absolute panic on the London Stock Exchange, only for a few hours, of course. But do you not see that if any man is wise enough to buy stock, in London, during that panic, he can make a fortune by reselling the moment the truth is known. Even then, sire, stammered Berthier, a little confused by this avalanche of seemingly irrelevant facts hurled at him at a moment when the whole map of Europe was being changed by destiny

and her future trembled in the hands of God. Ah, de Marmont saw it all. At once, continued the emperor earnestly, he saw eye to eye with me. He knows that money, a great deal of money, is just what I want now. Money to reorganize my army, to re-equip and reform it. The chamber and my ministers will never give me what I want. My God, they are such cowards. And some of them would rather see the foreign troops again in Paris, than Napoleon Emperor at the Tulleries. You should know that, Marshal,

and you too, my good Bertrand, de Marmont knows it. That is why he rode to Brussels at the hour when I alone knew that all was lost at Waterloo. But when half Europe still thought that the Corsican ogre had conquered again, de Marmont is in Brussels now. Tonight, he crosses over to England. Tomorrow morning, he and his broker will be in the stock exchange in London, calm, silent, watchful, an operation on the bourse, what, like hundreds that have been done before. But in this case, the object will be to turn one million into 50,

so that with it I might rebuild my empire again. He spoke with absolute convalued. and with indomitable fervor, sitting here quietly, he, the architect of the mightiest empire of modern days, just as he used to do in the camps at Austerlitz and Jenna and Wagram and Friedland, with one clenched hand resting upon the rough deal table, the flickering light of the tallow candle illuminating the wide brow, the heavy jaw, those purests, eyes that still gazed in this hour of supreme catastrophe into a glorious future destined never to be. Scheming, planning, scheming still, even while his grand army was melting into nothingness all around him.

And distant volleys of musketry were busy consummating the final annihilation of the empire, which he had created and still hoped to rebuild. Berthier gave a quick sign of impatience. Rebuild an empire, ye gods, an empire, when the flower of its manhood lies pale and stark, like the windrows of corn after the harvester has done his work. Thoughts of a dreamer, schemes of a visionary, how will the quaking lips,

which throughout the length and breadth of this vast hecatom now cry, Save ki-put, how will they ever in tone again the old Viva la Emperor? The conqueror of Wagram gave a bitter sigh, and faithful Bertrand hung his head gloomily, but De Marmont had neither sighed nor doubted. But then de Marmont was young. He too was a dreamer and an enthusiast and a visionary. His idol in his eyes had never had feet of clay. For him, the stricken man was his emperor still. The architect, the creator, the invincible conqueror, checked for a moment in his glorious work, but able at his will to rebuild the empire of France again.

on the very ruins that smoldered now on the fields of Waterloo. I can do it, sire. He had cried exultantly when his emperor first expounded his great new scheme to him. I can be in Brussels in an hour and catch the midnight packet for England at Ostend. At dawn I shall be in London, and by ten o'clock at my post. I know a financier, a Jew, and a mightily clever one, he will operate for me. I have a million or two francs invested in England. We'll use these for our operations.

Money, sire, you shall have millions. Our differences on the stock exchange will equip the finest army that even you have ever had. Fifty millions? I'll bring you a hundred. God has not yet decreed the downfall of the Empire of France. So de Marmont had spoken this afternoon in the enthusiasm of his youth and of his hero worship, and since then the great dreamer had continued to weave his dreams. Nothing was lost, nothing could be lost, whilst enthusiasm such as that survived in the hearts of the young. and still wrapped in his dream he sat on, while danger and death and disgrace threatened him on

every side. Berthier and Bertrand entreated in vain, in vain tried to drag him away from this solitary place where any moment a party of Prussians might find and capture him. Unceremoniously, the prince of Wagram had blown out the flickering light that might have attracted the attention of the pursuers. It was a very elementary precaution, the only one he or Bertrand was able to take. The horses were out in the yard for anyone to see, and the greatest spoil of victory might at any moment fall into the hands of the meanest Prussian soldier out for loot. But the dreamers still sat on in the gloom with the pay of the pay light of the moon streaming in through the narrow casement window and illumining that marble-like face,

rigid and set, that seemed only to live by the glowing eyes, the eyes that looked into the future and the past, and heeded not the awful present. Close on a quarter of an hour went by, until at last he jumped to his feet with the sudden cry of, to Gannap. Berthier heaved a sigh of relief, and Bertrand hurried out to unfasten the horses. You are impatient prince, said the emperor almost gaily, as he strode with a firm step to the door. You are afraid those cursed Prussians will put the Corsican ogre into a cage, and send him at once to his victorious bourbon majesty, King Louis the 18. Not so, my good berthier, not so. The star of my destiny has not yet declined. I've done all the thinking I wanted to do. Now, we'll two gannap, where we'll rally the remnants of our army,

and then quietly await de Marmont's return with the millions which we want. After that, we'll boldly on to Paris and defy my enemies there. Anne Avant, Marshal, the Corsican ogre is not in the iron cage yet. Outside Bertrand was holding his stirrup for him. He swung himself lightly in the saddle and turned out of the farmyard gate into the open, throwing back his head and sniffing the storm-laden air as if he was about to leave. his army to one of his victorious charges. Not waiting to see how close the other two men followed him, he put his horse at once at a gallop. He rode on, never pausing, never looking round even on that

gigantic desolation, which the cold light of the moon weirdly and fitfully revealed. His mind was fixed upon a fresh throw on the gaming table of the world. Overhead, the storm-driven clouds chased one another with unflagging fury across the moonlit sky, now obscuring, now revealing that gigantic dissolution of the Grand Army, so like the melting of ice and frost under the fierce kiss of the sun. More than men in an attack, less than women in a retreat, the finest cavalry Europe had ever been. seen, was flying like sand before the wind. But the somnambulist rode on in his sleep,

forgetting that on these vast and billowing fields, 26,000 gallant French heroes had died for the sake of his dreams. Bertrand and the Prince of Wagram followed, gloomy and silent. They knew that all suggestions would be useless. All saner advice remained. unheeded. Besides de Marmont had gone, and after all, what did it all matter? What did anything matter? Now that empire, glory, hope, everything were irretrievably lost. And in faithful Bertrand's deep-set eyes, there came a strange, far-off look, almost of premonition, as if in his mind he could already see that lonely island rock in the Atlantic, and the great gambler there, eating out his heart with vain and bitter regrets. But de Marmont had never had any doubts, never any forebodings.

He only had boundless faith in his hero and boundless enthusiasm for his cause, accustomed to handle money since early manhood, owner of a vast fortune, which he had had. administered himself with no mean skill. He had no doubt that the emperor's scheme for manufacturing a few millions in a wild gamble on the stock exchange was not only feasible, but certain of success. Undoubtedly, the false news of Wellington's defeat would reach London tomorrow, as it had already reached Paris and Brussels. The panic in the money market was a forgotten. conclusion. The quick rise in prices when the truth became known was equally certain. It only meant for stalling the arrival of Wellington's dispatches in London by four and

twenty hours, and one million would make fifty during that time. As de Marmont had told his emperor, he had several hundred thousand pounds invested in England on which he could lay his hands, operations on the Boers were nothing new to him. And already, while he was still listening with respect and enthusiasm to his emperor's instructions, he was longing to get away. He knew the country well between here and Brussels, and he was wildly longing to be at work, to be flying across the low-lying land onto Brussels and then across to England, in the wake of the awful news of complete disaster. He would steal the uniform of some poor dead wretch, a Belgium or a Hanoverian, or a Black Brunswicker. He didn't care which. It wouldn't take long

to strip the dead, and the greatness of the work at stake would justify the sacrilege. In the uniform of one of the Allied army, he could safely continue his journey to Brussels, and with clock could reach the city long before sunset. In Brussels, he would at once obtain civilian clothes and then catch the evening packet for England at Ostend. Oh, no, it was not likely that Wellington could send a messenger over to London quite so soon. At this hour, it was just past five, he was still on Mont Saint-Jean, making another desperate stand against the imperial cavalry, with troops half worn out with discouragement, and whose endurance must even now be giving way. At this hour, the Prussians had appeared at Brayne La Aloud.

They had engaged Real at Plonsignoy, but Wellington and the British had still to hold their ground, or the news which de Marmont intended to accompany to London, might prove true, after all. Ye gods, if only that were possible. How gladly would Victor then have lost the hundred thousands which he meant to risk tomorrow? Wellington really vanquished before Blucher could come to his rescue. Napoleon once more victorious as he had always been, and a dear monarch than before. Then he, Victor de Marmont, the faithful young enthusiast who had never ceased to believe, when others wavered, who at this last hour, when the whole world seemed to crumble away from under the feet of the man who had once been its master, was still ready to serve his

emperor, never doubting, always hoping, he would reap such a reward. as must at last dazzle the one woman who could make that reward for him doubly precious. Victor de Marmont had effected the gruesome exchange. He was now dressed in the black uniform of a Brunswick regiment, wherein so many French royalists were serving. By a wide detour, he had reached the approach to Brussels. Indeed, it seemed as if the news, which he had sent flying to Paris, was true after all. Behind the forest of Sonia, where he now was,

the fields and roads were full of running men and galloping horses, the dull green of Belgian uniforms, the yellow facings of the Dutch, the black of Brunswickers, all mingled together in a moving kaleidoscopic mass of color. The men were flying unpursued, yet panic-stricken towards Brussels, carrying tidings of an awful disaster, to the Allied armies in their haggard faces, their quivering lips, their blood-stained tunics. De Marmont joined in with them, though his heart was full of hope, he too contrived to look pale and spent and panic-stricken at will. He heard the shouts of terror. The hastily murmured,

All is lost. Even the British can no longer stand. As horses maddened with fright, bore their half-senseless riders by. He set his teeth and rode on. His dark eyes glowed with satisfaction. There was no fear that the great gambler would stake his last in vain.

The news would travel quick enough as news of disaster always will. Brussels even now must be full of weeping women and children, as it soon would be of terror-driven men, of wounded and of maimed, crawling into the shelter of the town to die in peace. As he rode, De Marmont thought more and more of Crystal. The last three months had only enhanced his passionate love for her

and his maddening desire to win her yet at all costs. St. Janice would, of course, be fighting today. Perchance a convenient shot would put him effectively out of the way. De Marmont had vainly tried in this wild gallopade to distinguish his rival's face among this mass of foreigners. As for the Englishman, well, no doubt he had disappeared long ago out of Crystal de Cambrai's life, de Marmont had never feared him greatly. That one look of understanding between Crystal and Clifford and the latter's strange conduct about the money at the inn were alone

responsible for the few twinges of jealousy which De Marmont had experienced in that quarter. Indeed, the Englishman was a negligible quantity. De Marmont did not fear him. there was only St. Genes, and with the royalist cause rendered absolutely hopeless, as it would be, as it must be, St. Genes and the Comte de Cambrai, and all those stiff-necked aristocrats of the old regime, who had thought fit to turn their proud backs on him at Brestolo three months ago, would be irretrievably ruined and discredited, and would have to fly the country once more. And Crystal, faced with the alternative of penury in England,

or a brilliant existence at the Tulleries, as the wife of the Emperor's most faithful friend, would make her choice as he, de Marmont, never doubted that any woman would. Hope for him had already become reality. Brussels was the halfway halt to the utterword, most heights of his ambition. Fortune, the emperor's gratitude, the woman he loved, all waited for him there. He reached the city just as that distant horizon in the west was lit up by a streak of brilliant crimson from the fast-sinking sun. Just when, had he but known it, on the crest of Mont Saint-John,

Wellington had waved his hat over his head and given the heroic British army, exhausted but undaunted, the order for a general charge. Just when the Grand Army finally checked in its advance had first set up the ominous call that was like the passing bell of its dying glory, Save Keput! Save Keput! Bobby Clifford heard the cry too. through the fast-gathering shadows of unconsciousness that closed in round his wearied senses.

And as a film that was so like the kindly veil of approaching death spread over his eyes, he raised them up just once to that vivid crimson glow far out in the west, and on the winged chariot of the setting sun, he sent up his last sigh of gratitude to God, All day he had called for death. All day he had wooed her there, where bullets and grape shot were thickest, where her huge scythe had been most busily at work. Sons of fond mothers, husbands, sweethearts that were dearly loved, brothers that would be endlessly mourned, lives that were more precious than any earthly treasures, the ghostly harvester claimed them all, with impartial cruelty, and he, desolate and lonely, with no one greatly to care if he came back or

no, with not a single golden thread of hope to which he might cling, without a dream to brighten the coming days of dreariness with a life in the future that could hold nothing but vain regrets. Bobby had sought death twenty times today, and death had resolutely passed him by But now he was grateful for that. He was thankful that he had lived just long enough to see the sunset, just long enough to take part in that last glorious charge in obedience to Wellington's inspiring command, up, guards, and at them. He was glad to have lived just long enough to hear the Savé Caput to know that the Grand Army was in, full retreat, that Bluquer had come up in time, that British pluck and British endurance had won the greatest victory of all times for Britain's flag and her national existence. Now with a rough bandage hastily tied round his head, where Grapeshot had lacerated cheek

and ear, with a bayonet thrust in the thigh and another in the arm, Bobby had remained lying there with many thousands round him as silent, as uncomplaining as he, in the downtrodden corn, and with the tramp of thousands of galloping, fleeing horses, the clash of steel and fusillade of tear-railers and artillery reaching his dimmed senses like a distant echo from the land of ghosts, and before his eyes half-veiled in unconsciousness, there flitted. the tender, delicate vision of Crystal the Cambrai, of her blue eyes and soft, fair hair, done up in a quaint mass of tiny curls, of the scarf of filmy lace, which she always liked to wrap round her shoulders, and through the lace the pearly sheen of her skin, of her arms,

and of her throat. The air around him had become pure and rarefied, that horrible stench of powder and smoke and blood no longer struck his nostrils. It was roses, roses all around him, crimson roses, sweet and caressing and fragrant, with soft velvety petals that brushed against his cheek. And from somewhere close by came a dreamy melody, the half-sad, half-gay lilt of an intoxicating dance. It was delicious. And Bobby, weary. sore and aching in body, felt his soul lifted to some exquisite heights, which were not yet heaven, of course, but which must of a truth form the very threshold of paradise. He saw crystal more and more clearly every moment. Now he was looking straight into her blue eyes, and her little hand,

cool and white as snow, rested upon his burning for his head. She smiled on him, as on a friend. There was no contempt, no harshness in her look, only a great consoling pity and something that seemed like an appeal. Yes, the longer he himself looked into those blue eyes of hers, the more sure he was that there was an appeal in them. It almost seemed as if she needed him in a way that she had never needed him before. Apparently, she could not speak. She could not tell him what it was she wanted, but her little hands seemed to draw him up out of the trodden, trampled corn, and having soothed his aches and pains, they seemed to impel him to do something that was important and imperative.

something that she wanted done. He begged her to let him lie here in peace, for he was now comforted and happy. He was quite sure now that he was dead, that her sweet face had been the last tangible vision which he had seen on earth, ere he closed his eyes in the long last sleep. He had seen her, and she had gone. All of a sudden she had vanished, and darkness was closing in around him. The scent of roses faded into the air, which was now filled again with horrid sounds, the deafening roar of cannon, the sharp and incessant retort of rifle fire, the awesome melee of cries and groans, and bugle calls, and sighs of agony, and one deafening cry, so like the last wail of departing souls, which came from

somewhere not very far away. Viva la Emperor. Bobby raised himself to a sitting posture. His head ached terribly. He was stiff in every limb, a burning, almost intolerable pain nod at his thigh and at his left arm. But consciousness had returned, and with it all the knowledge of what this day had meant. All round him, there was the broken corn, stained with blood and mud. All round him lay the dead and the dying in their thousands. Far away in the west, a crimson glow like fire lit up this vast hecatom of brave lives sacrificed, this final agony of the vast empire. The might and grandeur of one man laid low this day by the mightier hand of God. It lit up with the weird light of the dying day,

the pallid, clean-shaven faces of gallant British boys, the rugged faces of the scot, the olive-skin of the child of province, the bronzed cheeks of old veterans, it threw its lurid glow on red coats and black coats, white facings, and gilt epaulettes. It drew space, sparks as of still living fire from breastplates and broken swords, discarded casks and bayonets, sabretasches and kilts and bugles and drums, and dead horses and arms and accoutrements, and dead and dying men, all lying pell-mell in a huge litter with the glow of midsummer sunset upon them, poor little chessmen, ponds and knights, castles of strength, and kings of some lonely mourning hearts all swept together by the almighty hand of the great master of this terrestrial game.

But with returning consciousness, Bobby's gaze took in a wider range of vision. He visualized exactly where he was on the south slope of Mont Saint-Jean, with Le Hay Saint on ahead a little to his left, and the white-washed walls of La Belle Alliance still further away, gleaming golden in the light of the setting sun. He saw that on the wide road, which leads to Gannap and Charleroy, the once invincible cavalry of the mighty emperor, was fleeing Helter-skelter from the scene of its disaster. He saw that the brinkable British, what was left of them, were in hot pursuit. He saw from far Plonsignoy, the scintillating casks of Bluquer's Prussians. And on the left, a detachment of Allied troops,

Dutch, Belgian, Brunswickers, had just started down the slope of the plateau to join in this death-dealing Pelmel, where amongst the litter of dead and dying in the confusion of pursuer and pursued. Comrade fought at times against Comrade. Brother fired on brother, Prussian against British. End of Chapter 10, Part 1. Chapter 10, Part 2 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. Down below behind the farm buildings of Le Hay Saint, two battalions of Chaucer's of the Old Guard had made a stand around a tattered bit of tricolor and the bronze eagle, symbol of so much decadent grandeur and of such undying glory.

Amoy Chassers, brave General Pellet, had cried, Let us save the eagle or die beneath its wing. and those who heard this last call of despair stopped in their headlong flight. They forged away for themselves through the mass of running horses and men. They rallied to their flag, and with their tirillers, kneeling on one knee, ranged in a circle round them, they now formed a living bulwark for their eagle of dauntless breasts and bristling bayonets. And upon this mass of desperate men, the small body of raw Dutch and Belgian and German troops

now hurled themselves with wild husses and blind impetuousness against this mass of heroes and of conquerors in a dozen victorious campaigns, men who had no longer anything to lose but life, and to whom life meant less than nothing now. Against them a handful of half-trained recruits, drunk with the cry of victory, which drowned the roar of the cannon and the clash of sabers, drunk with the vision of glory which awaited them if that defiant eagle were brought to earth by them. And as Bobby staggered to his feet, he already saw the impending catastrophe.

one of the many on this day of cumulative disasters. He saw the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers rush wildly to the charge, young men, enthusiasts, brave, but men whose ranks had twice been broken today, who twice had rallied to their colors, and then had broken again, men who were exhausted, men who were none too ably led, men, in fact, and there were many French royalists among their officers who had not the physical power of endurance, which had enabled the British to astonish the world today. Bobby could see amongst them the Brunswickers and their black coats. He would have known them amongst millions of men, the full brilliance of the evening glow was upon them. On their black coats and the silver galoons and tassels, two of their

officers had made a brave show in Brussels three days, or was it a hundred years ago at the Duchess of Richmond's Ball? Bobby remembered them so well, for one of these two officers was Marie's de Saint-Generes. Oh, how Crystal would love to see him now, even though her dear heart would be torn with anxiety for him, for he was fighting bravely, bravely and desperately, as everyone had fought today, as these chasseurs of the old guard, just the few of them that remained, were fighting still, even at this hour, round that tottered flag and that bronze eagle, and with the cry of Viva la Emperor, dying upon their lips. Despair in despair in indeed on both sides, even at this hour, when the merest incident might yet turn the issue

of this world conflict one way or the other. Bobby, as he steadied himself on his feet, had seen that the attack was already turning into a route. Not only had pellets chasseurs held the Dutch and Brunswickers at bay, not only had their tear-rollers made deadly havoc among their assailants, but the latter now were threatened with absolute annihilation, even whilst all around them, their allies, British and Prussian, were crying victory. Bobby could see them quite clearly, for he saw with that subtle and delicate sense which only a great and pure passion, can give. He saw the danger at the very moment when it was born, at the precise instant when it threatened that handful of black-coated men, one of whose officers was named St. Genus. He saw the first

sign of wavering, of stupefaction that followed the impetuous charge. He saw the gaps in the ranks after that initial deadly volley from the Tireleurs. It almost seemed as if he could hear those shouts of Viva la Emperor and the rallying cry of commanding officers. It was all so near, not more than 300 yards away, and the clear, stormy atmosphere carried sights and sounds upon its wing. Another volley from the Tierreleurs, and the Dutch and the Dutch and Brunswickers turned to fly. In vain did their officers call. They wanted to get away. They tried to fly, to run, for now the chasseurs were at them with bayonets. They tried to run, but the ground was littered with their own wounded and dead. With the wounded and the dead of a long day of carnage,

they stumbled at every step, fell over the dying and the wounded, over dead and wounded. horses over piles of guns and swords and bayonets and sabretasches over forsaken guns and broken carriages, litter that impeded them in front even as they were driven with the bayonet from the rear. Bobby saw it all, for they were coming now, pursued and pursuers, as fast as ever they could. They were coming, these flying black-coated men, casting away. their gay trappings as well as their arms, trying to run, to get away, but stumbling, falling all the time, picking themselves up, falling, and running again. And in that one short moment, while the whole brief tragedy was enacted before his eyes, Bobby also saw, in a vision that was equally swift

and fleeting, the blue eyes of crystal drowned in tears. He saw her, with fair head drooping like a lily. He saw the quiver of her lips, heard the moan of pain that would come to her lips when the man she loved was brought home to her dead. And in that same second, so full of portent, Bobby understood why it was that her sweet image had called to him for help just now. Again, she called. Again, she beckoned. Her blue eyes looked on him with an appeal that was all compelling. Her two dear hands were clasped, and she begged of him that he should be her friend. Such visions come from God. No man sees them, save he whose soul is great, and whose heart is pure. Poor Bobby Clifford, lonely, heartbroken, desolate, saw the exquisite face that he would have loved to kiss. He saw it with the golden glow of evening upon the delicate cheeks, and with the lurid light of fire and battle upon the soft, fair, hair. And the greatness of his love helped him to understand what life still held for.

him, the happiness of supreme sacrifice. All around him was death, but there was some life, too. One or two poor, abandoned, riderless horses were quietly picking bits of corn from between the piles of dead and dying men, or were standing, sniffing the air with dilated nostrils, and snorting with terror at the deafening noise. Bobby had steadied himself, Neither his head nor his limbs were aching now. At any rate, he had forgotten them. All that he remembered was what he saw, those black-coated Brunswickers who longed to fly and could not,

and who were being slaughtered like insects, even as they stumbled and fled. And Bobby caught the bridle of one of these poor terror-stricken beasts that stood snorting and sniffing not far. away. He crawled up into the saddle, for his thigh was numb, and one of his arms helpless, but once on horseback he could get along, over trampled corn, and over the dead, on toward that hideous corner behind the farm of Lahais Saint, where desperate men were butchering others that were more desperate than they, in among that seething crowd of black coats

and fur bonnets of silver tassels and of brass eagles into a whirlpool of swords and bayonets and gunfire from the tearlers. For there he had seen the man whom Crystal loved, for whose sake she would eat out her heart with mourning and regret. In the deafening noise of shrieking and sighs and whizzing bullets and cries of agony, he heard Crystal's voice telling him what to do. Already, he had seen St. Janice struggling on his knees, not 50 meters away from the first line of Tirelors, not a hundred from the advancing steel wall of fixed bayonets. Maurice had thrown back his head in the hopelessness of his despair. The evening sun fell full upon his haggard.

blood-stained face upon his wide-open eyes, filled with a terror of death. The next moment, Bobby Clifford was by his side. All around him, bullets were whizzing. All around him, men sighed their last sigh of agony. He stooped over his saddle. Can you pull yourself up? He called, and with his one sound arm, he caught Maurice by the elbow and helped him to struggle to his feet. The horse dazed with terror, snorted at the smell of blood, but he did not move. Maurice equally dazed, scrambled into the saddle, almost inert, a dead weight, a thing that impeded progress and movement. But the thing that Crystal loved above all things on earth, and which Bobby knew he must rest

out of these devouring jaws of death, and lay safe and sound, within the shelter of her arms. After that, it meant a struggle, not for his own life, for indeed he cared little enough for that, but for the sake of the burden which he was carrying, a burden of infinite preciousness since Crystal's heart and happiness were bound up with it. Maurice de Saint-Gena's clung half inert to him, with one hand gripping the saddlebow, the other clutching Bobby's belt with convulsive tenacity. Bobby himself was only half-conscious, dazed with the pain of wounds, the exertion of hoisting that dead weight across his saddle, the deafening noise of whizzing bullets round him, the boring of the frightened horse

against its bridle, as it tried to pick its way through the tangled heaps upon the ground. But every moment lessened the danger from stray bullets and the chance of the bayonet charge from behind. The cries of Viva Le Emperor round that still standing eagle were drowned in the medley and confusion of hundreds of other sounds. Bobby was just able to guide his horse away from the spots where the fighting was most hot and fierce, where Vivian's hussers attacked those two battalions of Corrusors, where Adam's brigade of artillery turned the flank of the chasseurs and laid the proud bronze eagle low, where Ney and the old guard were showing to the rest of the Grand Army how grizzled veterans fought and died. He rode straight up the plateau,

however, but well to the right now, picking his way carefully with that blind instinct, which the tract beast possesses and which the hunted man sometimes receives from God. The dead and the dying were less thick here upon the ground. It was here that earlier in the day, the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers had supported the British left during those terrific cavalry charges, which British endurance and tenacity had alone been able to withstand. was here that Hacks Cumberland Hussars had broken their ranks and fled, taking to Brussels, and thence to Ghent, the news of terrific disaster. Bobby's lips were tight set, and he snorted like a

warhorse when he thought of that, when he thought of the misery and sorrow that must be reigning in Brussels now, and of the consternation at Ghent, where the poor old Bourbon king was probably mourning his dead hopes and his vanished throne. In Brussels, women would be weeping, and Crystal, forlorn and desolate, would perhaps be sitting at her window, watching the stream of fugitives that came in, wounded and exhausted from the field of battle, recounting tales of a catastrophe which had no parallel in modern times. And Crystal, seeing and hearing this, would think of the man she loved, and believing him to be dead, would break her heart with sorrow. And when Bobby thought of that, he was spurred to fresh effort, and he pulled himself together

with a desperate tension of every nerve and sinew, fighting exhaustion, ignoring pain, conjuring up the vision of Crystal's blue eyes and her pleading look, as she begged him to save her from lifelong sorrow and the anguish of future loneliness, then he no longer heard the weird and incessant cannonade. He no longer saw the desolation of this utter confusion around him. He no longer felt exhausted or the weight of that lifeless impeding burden upon his saddlebow. Stray bands of fugitives with pursuers hot on their heels passed him by. Stray bullets flew to right and left of him, whizzing by, with their eerie whistling sound. He was now on the outskirts of the great pursuit.

Anon he reached the crest of Mont Saint-Jean at last, and almost blindly struck back eastward in the direction of the forest of Sona. It was blind instinct and nothing more that kept him on his horse. He clung to his saddle with half paralyzed. knees, just as a drowning man will clutch a floating bit of wreckage that helps him to keep his head above the water. The stately trees of Sonae were not far ahead now. Through the forest, any track that bore to the left would strike the Brussels road. Only a little more strength, another effort or two, the cool solitude of the wood would ease the weight of the burden and the throbbing

of nerves and brain. The setting sun shone full upon the leafy edge of the wood. Hazelnut and beech and oak and clumps of briar rose quivered under the rough kiss of the wind that blew straight across the lowland from the southwest, bringing with it still the confusion of sounds, the weird cannonades and dismal bugle calls in such strange contrast to the rustle of the leaves. and the crackling of tiny twigs in the tangled coppice. How cool and delicious it must be under those trees, and there was a narrow track which must lead straight to the Brussels Road. The ground looked soft and mossy and damp after the rain,

oh, for the strength to reach those leafy shadows, to plunge under that thicket and brush with burning forehead against those soft green leaves heavy with moisture. Oh, for the power to annihilate this distance of a few hundred yards that lie between this immense graveyard open to wind and scorching sun, and the green, cool moss, and carpet of twigs and leaves and soft, sweet-smelling earth, on which a weary body and desolate soul might find eternal rest. on on through the forest of sonye there was no question as yet of rest marie's had not yet wakened from his trance bobby vaguely wondered if he were not already dead there was no stain of blood upon his fine uniform but it was just possible that in stumbling running and falling he had hit his head or received a blow which had deprived him of consciousness directly after he had scrambled into the saddle.

Bobby remembered how pale and haggard he had looked, and how his hand had, by the merest instinct, clutched at the saddlebow, and then had dropped away from it, helpless and inert. Now he lay quite still with his head resting against Bobby's shoulder. Under the trees, it was cool, and the air was sweet and sweet, soothing. Bobby, with his left hand, contrived to tear a handful of leaves from the coppice as he passed. They were full of moisture, and he pressed them against Marisa's lips and against his own.

The forest was full of sounds of running men and horses, the rattle of wheels, and the calls of terror and of pain, with still and always that awesome background of persistent. cannonade. But Bobby heard nothing, saw nothing, save the narrow track in front of him, along which the horse now ambled leisurely, and from time to time, when he looked down, the pale haggard face of the man whom Crystal loved. At one moment, Marisse opened his eyes and murmured feebly, where am I? On the way to Brussels, Bobby contrived to reply, A little later on, horse and rider emerged out of the wood, and the Brussels road stretched out its long, straight ribbon before Bobby Clifford's dull, uncomprehending gaze.

Close by at his feet, the milestone marked the last six kilometers to Brussels, only another half-dozen kilometers, only another hour's ride at most, only, when even now he felt that the next few minutes must see him tumbling head foremost from the saddle. Far away beyond the milestone on his right in a meadow, the boundary of which touched the edge of the wood. Women were busy tossing hay after the rain, all unconscious of the simple little tragedy that was being enacted so close to them. Their cotton dresses and the kerchiefs round their heads stood out as trenchant, vivid notes of color against the dull gray landscape beyond. A couple of hay carts were standing by. Beside them, two men were lighting their pipes. The wind was playing with the hay as the women tossed it, and their shrill laughter came echoing

across the meadow. And even now, the ground was shaken with the repercussion of distant volleys of artillery, and along the road a stream of men were running toward Brussels, horses galloped by frightened and riderless or dragging broken gun carriages behind them in the mud. The whole of that stream was carrying the news of Wellington's disaster to Brussels and to Ghent, not knowing that behind them had already sounded the passing bell for the Empire of France. Bobby had drawn rain on the edge of the wood to give his horse a rest, and for a while he watched that running stream, longing to shout to them to turn back. There was no occasion to run, to see what had been done, to take a share in that glorious final charge for victory. But his throat was too parched for a

out, and as he watched, he saw in among a knot of mounted men, fugitives like the others, pale of face, anxious of men, and with that intent look which men have when life is precious and has got to be saved. He saw a man in the same uniform that St. Genis wore, a Brunswicker in black coat and silver galoons, who stared at him persistently and strangely as he rode by. The face, though much altered by three days' growth of beard and by the set of the shako worn right down to the brows, was nevertheless a familiar one. Bobby stupefied, deprived for the moment of thinking powers through sheer exhaustion and burning pain, taxed his weary brain in vain, to understand the look of recognition, which the man in the black uniform cast upon him as he

passed, until a lightly spoken, hello, my dear Clifford, uttered gaily as the rider drew near to the edge of the road, brought the name of Victor de Marmont to Bobby's quivering lips. And just for the space of 60 seconds, fate rubbed her gaunt hands complacently together, seeing that she had brought these three men together here on this spot, three men who loved the same woman, each with the utmost ardor and passion at his command, each even at this very moment striving to win her and to work for her happiness. Behind them in the plains of Waterloo, the canon still was roaring. De Marmont was on his way to redeem the fallen fortunes of the hero whom he worshipped, and to win imperial regard, imperial favors, fortune and glory, wherewith to conquer a girl's

obstinacy. St. Genus, pale and unconscious, seemed even in his unconsciousness to defy the power of any rival by the might of early love, of old associations, of similarity of caste and of political ideals. He had fought for the cause which she and he had both equally at heart, and by his very helplessness now, he seemed to prove that he could do no more than he had done, and that he had the right to claim the solace and comfort. which her girlish lips and her girlish love had promised him long ago. Whilst Bobby had nothing to promise and nothing to give save devotion, his hope, his desire, and his love were bounded by her happiness,

and since her happiness lay in the life of the man whom he had dragged out of the jaws of death, what greater proof could he give of his love than to lay down, his life for him and for her. De Marmont's keen eyes took in the situation at a glance. He threw a quick look of savage hatred on St. Genus and cast one of contemptuous pity on Clifford. Then with a shrug of the shoulders and a light triumphant laugh, he set spurs to his horse and rode swiftly away. Bobby's lackluster eyes followed horse and rider down the road till they grew smaller and smaller still and finally disappeared in the distance. For a moment, he felt puzzled. What was De Marmont doing in this stream of senseless panic-stricken men? What was he doing in the uniform of one of the allied nations? Why had he laughed

so gaily and appeared so triumphant in his mien. Did he not know then that his hero had fallen along with his mighty eagle, that the brief adventure begun in the Gulf of Joanne had ended in a hopeless tragedy on the field of Waterloo? But why that uniform? Poor Bobby's head ached too much to allow him to think, and time was getting on. The road now was deserted. The last of the fugitives formed but a cloud of black specks on the line of the horizon far off toward Brussels. From the hayfield there came the merry sound of women's laughter, while the far-away cannon and musketry still roared, and over the long, straight road, bordered with straight poplar trees, the setting sun through ever-lengthening shadows.

Maurice opened his eyes. Where am I? He asked again. Close to Brussels now, replied Bobby. To Brussels, murmured St. Genes feebly, crystal. Yes, assented Bobby, Crystal. God bless her. Then as St. Janus was trying to move, he added, can you shift a little? I think so, replied the other. If you could ease the pressure on my leg, steady. Now steady. Can you, can you? You, You sit up in the saddle, are you hurt? Not much. My head aches terribly. I must have hit it against something, but that is all.

I am only dizzy and sick. Could you ride on to Brussels alone, think you? Perhaps. It is not far. The horse is very quiet. He will amble along if you give him his head. But you? I'd like to rest.

I'll find shelter in a cottage, perhaps, or in the wood. St. Genes said nothing more for the moment. He was intent on sliding down from the saddle without too much assistance from Bobby. When he had reached the ground, it took him a little while to collect himself, for his head was swimming. He closed his eyes and put out a hand to steady himself against a tree. When Marisse opened his eyes again, Bobby was sitting on the ground by the roadside, the horse was nibbling a clump of fresh green grass for the first time since that awful moment when stumbling and falling against a pile of dead with death behind and all around him. He had heard the welcome call, can you pull yourself up, and felt the steadying grip upon his

elbow. Marie's Day St. Janus looked upon the man to whom he owed his life. With that stained bandage round his head, dulled and bloodshot eyes, face blackened with powder and smoke, and features drawn and haggard. Bobby Clifford was indeed almost unrecognizable, but Maurice knew him on the instant. Hitherto, he had not thought of how he had come out of that terrible hellfire behind Le Hay Saint. Indeed, he had quickly lost consciousness and never regained it till now, and now he knew that the same man, who in the narrow hotel room near Lyons, had ungrudgingly rendered him a signal service, had risked his life today for his, Marisa's sake. No one could have entered that awful Malay and faced the bayonet charge of pellets, corassurs, and the hail of

bullets from their tirillers, without taking imminent risk of death, yet, Clifford had done it. Why? Maurice wide-eyed and sullen could only find one answer to that insistent question. That same deadly pang of jealousy which had assailed his heart after the midnight interview at the inn now held him in its cruel grip again. He felt that he hated the man to whom he owed his life and that he hated himself for this mean and base in gratitude. He would not trust himself to speak or to look on Bobby at all, lest the ugly thoughts which were floating through his mind set their stamp upon his face. Will you ride on to Brussels? He said at last, I can wait here, and perhaps you could send a conveyance for me later on.

Monsieur Lecomte de Cambre would... Monsieur Lecombe de Cambray and Mademoiselle Crystal are even now devoured with anxiety about you, broken Clifford as firmly as he could. And I could not ride to Brussels, even though someone were waiting for me there. I really am not able to ride further. I would prefer to sit here.

and rest. I don't like to leave you after, after what you have done for me. I would like to, I would like you to scramble into that saddle and go, retorted Bobby with a momentary return to his usual good-natured irony and to leave me in peace. I'll send out a conveyance for you, rejoined St. Genis, I know Monsieur Lecomte de Cambre would wish, mentioned, my name to M. M. La Comte at your peril, began Clifford. But, by the Lord, man, now exclaimed Bobby, with a sudden burst of energy, if you do not go, I vow that sick as I am, and sick though you may be, I'll yet manage to punch your aching head. Then as the other, still reluctantly, turned to take hold of the horse's bridle. He added more gently,

Can you mount? Oh, yes, I am better now. You won't turn giddy and fall off your horse. I don't think so. Talk about the halt leading the blind, murmured Clifford, as he stretched himself out once more upon the soft ground, whilst Maurice contrived to hoist himself up into the saddle. Are you safe now? He added, as the young man collected the reins in his hand and planted his feet firmly into the stirrups. Yes, I am safe enough, replied St. Janus, it is only my head that aches, and Brussels is not far. Then he paused a moment ere he started to go, with lips set tight and looking down on Bobby, whose pale face had taken on an ashen hue. How you must despise me, he said bitterly.

But Bobby made no reply. He was just longing to be left alone, whilst the other still seemed inclined to linger. Would to God, Marie said with a sigh that Monsieur Lecomte heard the evil news from other lips than mine. Evil news, and Bobby, whom semi-concounsel was already taking off once more to the land of visions and of dreams,

was brought back to reality, as if with a sudden jerk, with those two preposterous little words. What evil news? He asked, the Allied armies have retreated all along the line. The Corsican adventurer is victorious. Our poor king! Hold your tongue, you young fool, cried Bobby hoarsely. The Lord help you, but I do believe you are about to blaspheme. But the Allied armies, the British Army, God bless it, have covered themselves with glory. Napoleon and his empire have ceased to be. The Grand Army is in full retreat. The Prussians are in pursuit. The British have won the day by their pluck and their endurance. Thank God I live. I live. just long enough to see it all, ere I fell. And when we charged the cuirassers, began St.

Janus, not knowing really if Bobby was raving in delirium, or speaking of what he knew. He wanted to ask further questions to hear something more before he started for Brussels. The only thing which he remembered with absolute certainty was that awful charge of his regiment against the corassus, then the panic and the route, and he judged the whole issue of the battle by what had happened to a detachment of Brunswickers. And yet, of course, before the charge, he had seen and known all that Bobby told him now that rush of the Brunswickers and the Dutch down the hillside was only a part of the huge and glorious charge of the whole of the allied troops against, the routed grand army of Napoleon. He had neither the physical strength nor the desire to think

out all that it would mean to him personally if what Bobby now told him was indeed absolutely true. He was longing to make the wounded man rouse himself just once more and reiterate the glad news which meant so much to him, Maurice, and to Crystal. But it was useless to think of that now. Bobby was either unconscious or asleep. For a moment, a twinge of real pity made St. Genesis' heart ache for the man who seemed to be left so lonely and so desolate. Jealousy itself gave way before that more gentle feeling. After all, Crystal could only be true to the love of her childhood. Her heart belonged to the companion, the lover, the ideal of her girlish dreams. This stranger here loved her. That was obvious, but Crystal had never looked on

him with anything but indifference, even that dance last night. But of this, Maris would not think, lest pity, die out of his heart again, and jealousy and hate walk hand in hand with base in gratitude. He turned his horse's head round to the road, pressed his knees into its sides, and then, as the poor, weary beast started to amble leisurely down the road, Maurice looked back for the last time on the prostrate, pathetic figure of the lonely man who had given his all for him. He looked at every landmark which would enable him to find that man again, the angle of the forest where it touched the meadow. The mile-strander, the trees by the roadside. Oh, he meant to do his duty, to do it well and quickly, to send the

conveyance, to neglect nothing. Then with a sigh, half of bitterness, yet full of satisfaction, he finally turned away and looked straight out before him into the distance where Brussels lay, and where the happiness of Crystal's love called to him. And he would find rest of and peace in the warm affection of her faithful heart. End of Chapter 10, Part 2. Chapter 11, Part 1 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. The Losing Hands

An hour later, Marie's Day St. Genus was in Brussels, though his head still ached, his mind was clear, and thoughts of crystal of happiness with her, now at last, within sight, had chased every other thought away. His home had been with the decambres ever since those old, sad days in England. He had a home to go to now, a home where the kindly friendship of the Comte, as well as the love, of Crystal was ready to welcome him. The warmth of anticipated happiness and well-being warmed his heart and gave strength to his body. The horrors of the past few hours seemed all to have melted away behind him on the Brussels Road, as did the remembrance of a man

wounded himself and spent, risking his life for the sake of a friend. Not that, St. Jenis meant to be ungrateful, nor did he forget that wounded man lying alone and sick on the fringe of the wood by the roadside. As soon as he had taken his horse round to the barracks in the Rue de Comedians, and before even he had a wash or had his uniform cleaned of stains and mud, he rushed to the headquarters of the Army's service to see how soon a conveyance could be sent out to his friend. And when he was unable to obtain what he wanted there, he rushed from hospital to hospital, fence to two or three doctors whom he knew of to see what could be done. But the hospitals were already over full and over busy. Their ambulances were all already on the way. As for the doctors,

they were all from home, all at work, where their skill was most needed. An army of doctors, of ambulances, and drivers would not suffice at this hour to bring all the wounded in from the spot where that awful battle was raging. And Marie said, saw time slipping by. He had already spent an hour in a fruitless quest. He longed to see Crystal and waxed impatient at the delay. Anon at the English Hospital, a kindly person who listened sympathetically to his tail, promised him that the ambulance, which was just setting out in the direction of Mont Saint John would be on the lookout for his wounded. friend by the roadside. And Maurice, with a sigh of relief, felt that he had, indeed, done his duty and

done his best. At the English hospital, Clifford would be splendidly looked after. Nowhere else could he find such sympathetic treatment. And Maurice, with a light heart, went back to the barracks in the Rue des comedians, where he had a wash and had his uniform cleaned. Somewhat refreshed, though still very tired, he hurried round to the Rue du Moraix, where the Comp de Cambrai had his lodgings. The first sight of Brussels had already told him the whole pitiable tale of panic and of desolation, which had filled the city in the wake of the future. fugitive troops. The streets were encumbered with vehicles of every kind, carts, barishes,

barrows with horses loosely tethered, with the wounded who lay about on litters of straw along the edges of the pavement in doorways, under archways in the center of open places, with crowds of weeping women and crying children wandering aimlessly from place to place, trying to find the loved one who might be lying here, hurt, or mayhap dying. And everywhere, men in tattered uniforms with grimy hands and faces and boots knee-deep in stains of mud, stood about or sat in the empty carts, talking, gesticulating, giving sundry, confused, and contradictory accounts of the great battle, describing Napoleon's decisive victory. Wellington's route, the prolonged absence of Bluquer, and the Prussians' cause of

the terrible disaster. M. Lecomte d'Artois had rushed precipitately from Brussels up to Ghent, to warn his majesty the King of France that all hope of saving his throne was now at an end, and that the wisest course to pursue was to return to England. and resign himself once more to obscurity and exile. M. Sour Le Prince de Kande, too, had gone off to Antwerp in a huge barrage, having under his care the treasure and jewels of the crown hastily collected three months ago at the Tulleries. In every open space, a number of prisoners were being guarded by mixed patrols of Dutch, Belgian, or German soldiers, and their cry of Vival la Emperor, which they reiterated

with unshakable obstinacy, roused the ire of their captors, and provoked many a savage blow, and many a broken head. But St. Genis did not pause to look on these sights. He had not the strength to stand up in the myths of these confused masses of terror-driven men and women, and to shout to them that they were fools, that all their panic must be turned to joy, their lamentations to shouts of jubilation. News of victory was bound to spread through the city within the next hour, and he himself longed only to see Crystal, to reach assure her as to his own safety to see the light of happiness kindled in her eyes by the news which he brought. He had not the strength for more. It was old Jean who opened the door at the lodgings

in the Rue du Marais, where Maris finally rang the bell there. Mourerle Marquis, she exclaimed, oh, but you are ill. Only very tired and weak, Jean, he said, said, it has been an awful day. Ah, but Massour Lecompt will be pleased. And Mademoiselle Crystal, asked Maris, with a smile, which had in it all the self-confidence of the accepted lover. Madameoiselle Crystal will be happy, too, said Jane. She has been so unhappy, so desperately anxious all day. Can I see her? Mademoiselle is out for the moment. Le Marquis and Monsieur Lecomte has gone to the circle des legitimistas in the rue des Cendres. Perhaps Monsieur Le Marquis knows it is not far.

I would like to see Mademoiselle Crystal first. You understand, don't you, Jean? Yes, I do, Monsieur Le Marquis, sighed faithful Jean, who was always inclined to be sentimental. How long will she be, do you think? Oh, another half-hour, perhaps more, mademoiselle has gone to the cathedral. If Monsieur Le Marquis will give himself the trouble to walk so far, he cannot fail to see mademoiselle when she comes out of church. But already, before Jane had finished speaking, Maris had turned on his heel and was speeding

back down the narrow street. Tired and weak as he was, his wife. one idea was to see Crystal, to hear her voice, to see the love light in her eyes. He felt that at sight of her, all fatigue would be gone. All recollections of the horrors of this day wiped out with the first look of joy and relief, with which she would greet him. The service was over, and the congregation had filed out of the cathedral, Crystal was one of the last to go. She stood for a long while in the porch, looking down with unseeing eyes on the bustle and excitement which went on in the place down below. Her mind was not here. It was far indeed from the crowd of terror-stricken or gossiping men and women of wounded soldiers, terrified peasantry and anxious townsfolk that encumbered

the precincts of the stately edifice. From the remote distance out toward the south came the boom and roar of cannon and musket fire, almost incessant still. There was her heart, there her thoughts, with the brave men who were fighting for their national existence. with the British troops and with their sufferings, and she stood here, staring straight out before her, dry-eyed and pale, and small white hands clasped tightly together. The greater part of today, she had sat by the open window in the shabby drawing-room in the rue du marais, listening to that awful fusillade, wondering with mind well-nigh bursting with horror, and with misery, which of those cruel shots which she heard in the dim distance would still forever

the brave and loyal heart that had made so many silent sacrifices for her, and her father, vaguely thinking that she was anxious about Marie's, vaguely wondering that she cared so much, had done his best to try and comfort her. She need not fear much for Maurice, he had told her as reassuringly as he could. The Brunswickers were not likely to suffer much. The brunt of the conflict would fall upon the British, but they would lose very heavily. Wellington had not more than 70,000 men to put up against the Corsican's troops, and only 150 cannon against 200.

And 80. Yes, the British would probably be annihilated by superior forces, but no doubt the other allies and the Brunswickers would come off a great deal better. But Madame la Duchess de Werriere da Aegean offered no such consolation. She contented herself with saying that she was sure in her mind that Maris would come through quite safely and that she prayed to God with all her heart and soul that the gallant British troops would not suffer too heavily. Then with her fine, gentle hand, she patted Crystal's fair curls, which were clinging, matted, and damp against the young girl's burning forehead. And she stooped and kissed those aching, dry, blue eyes, and whispered quite under her breath, so that Crystal could not be sure. if she heard correctly, may God protect him too. He is a brave and a good man. And then Crystal had gone out to seek peace and rest in beautiful old Saint Goodoul, so full of memories of other conflicts, other prayers, other deeds of heroism of long ago. Here in the dim light and the silence and the

peace, her quivering nerves had become somewhat stilled. And when she came out, she was able just for the moment, neither to see or hear the terror mongers down below, and only to think of the heroes out there on the field of battle for whom she had just prayed with such passionate earnestness. Suddenly in the crowd, she recognized Maurice. He was coming up the cathedral steps, looking for her, no doubt. Gene must have directed him. When he drew near to her, he saw that a look of happy surprise and of true joy lit up the delicate pathos of her face. He ran quickly to her now. He would have taken her in his arms here in the face of the crowd, but there was something in her manner which instinctively sobered him, and he had to be content with the little cold hands which she held out to him,

and with imprinting a kiss upon her fingertips. Already in his eyes, she had read that the news which he brought was not so bad as rumor had foretold. Maris, she cried excitedly, with a little catch in her throat, you are well and safe, thank God, and what news? The news is good, Maris replied, Victory is assured by now. It has been a hard day, but we have won. She said nothing for a moment, but the tears gathered in her eyes, her lips quivered, and Maris knew that she was thanking God. Then she turned back to him, and he could see her face glowing with excitement. and our allies, she asked, and now that little catch in her throat was more marked.

The British troops, we heard that they behaved like heroes and bore the brunt of this awful battle. I don't know much about the British troops, my sweet, he replied lightly, but what news I have, I will have to impart to your father as well as to you, so it will have to keep until I see him. But just now, Crystal, while we are alone, I have other things to say to you. But it is doubtful that Crystal heard more than just the first words which he had spoken, for she broke in quite irrelevantly. You don't know about the British troops, Maurice. Oh, but you must know.

Don't you know what British regiments were engaged? I know that none of our own people were in British regiments. Mr. Crystal, he retorted somewhat dryly, whereas the Brunswickers and Nassauers were as much French as German, they fought gallantly all day. You do not ask so much about them. But she stammered while a hot flush spread over her cheeks. I thought, you said, are you not content for the moment, Crystal, he called out with tender reproach to know that victory has crowned our king and his allies, and that I have come back to you safely out of that raging hell at Waterloo. Are you not glad that I am here?

He spoke more vehemently now, for there was something in Crystal's calm attitude which had begun to chill him. had he not been in deadly danger all the day, had she not heard that distant cannon's roar, which had threatened his life throughout all these hours, had he not come back out of the very jaws of death? And yet, here she stood, white as a lily, and as unruffled, except for that one first exclamation of joy, not a single cry from the heart, had forced it. itself through her pale, slightly trembling lips. Yet she was as sweet and girlish and tender as of old, and even now at the implied reproach, her eyes had quickly filled with tears. How can you ask?

Maurice, she protested gently. I have thought of you and prayed for you all day. It was her quiet serenity that disconcerted him. The kindly tone, of her voice. Her calm, unembarrassed manner checked his passionate impulse and caused him to bite his underlip with fixation until it bled. The shadows of evening were closing in around them. From the windows of the houses close by, dim yellow lights began to blink like eyes overhead. The exquisite towers of St. Goodul stood out against the stormy sky like purcells. perfect, delicate lacework turned to stone, whilst the glass of the west window glittered like a sheet of sapphires and emeralds and rubies as it caught the last rays of the sinking sun.

Crystal's graceful figure stood out in its white summer draperies, clear and crystalline as herself, against the somber background of the cathedral porch, and Maurice watched her through the him shadows of gathering twilight. He watched her as a fowler watches the bird, which he has captured and never wholly tamed. Somehow, he felt that her love for him was not quite what it had been until now, that she was no longer the same girlish, submissive creature on whose soft cheeks, a word or look from him, had the power to raise a flush of joy. She was different now, in a curious, intangible way which he could not define, and jealousy reared up its threatening head more insistently. Bitter jealousy, which embraced De Marmont, Clifford, fate, and circumstance, but Clifford above all.

The stranger hitherto deemed of no account, but who now, wounded, abandoned, dying perhaps, seemed a more formidable rival than Maurice a while ago had deemed possible. He cursed himself for that touch of sentiment. He called it cowardice, which the other night, after the ball, had prompted him to write to Crystal. But for that voluntary confession, he thought she could never have despised him, and following up the train of his own thoughts and realizing that these had not been spoken, he suddenly called out abruptly. Is it because of my letter, Crystal? She gave a start and turned even paler than she had been before.

Obviously, she had been brought roughly back from the land of dreams. Your letter, Maurice? She asked vaguely, what do you mean? I wrote you a letter the other night. He continued, speaking quickly and harshly after the ball. Did you receive it? Yes, and read it? Of course, and is it because of it that your love for me has gone? He had not meant to put his horrible suspicions into words.

The very fact, now that he had spoken, appeared more tangible, even irremediable. She did not reply to his taunt, and he came a little closer to her and took her hand. and when she tried to withdraw it from his grasp, he held it tightly and bent down his head so that in the gathering gloom he could read every line of her face. Because of what I told you in my letter, you despised me. Did you not? He asked. Again, she made no reply. What could she say that would not hurt him far more than did her silence? The next moment he had drawn her back, right into the shadow of the cathedral walls, into a dark angle where no one could see either her or him. He placed his hands upon her shoulders and compelled her to look him straight

in the face. Listen, Crystal, he said slowly and with desperate earnestness, once long ago, I gave you up to DeMarmont, to affluence and to considerations of your name and of of our caste. It all but broke my heart. But I did it because your father demanded that sacrifice from you and from me. I was ready then to stand aside and to give up all the dreams of my youth. But now everything is different. For one thing, the events of the past hundred days have made every man many years older. The hell I went through today has helped to make a more sober, more determined man of me. Now I will not give you up. I will not. My way is clear. I can win you with your father's consent and give him and you all that de Marmont had promised. The king trusts me and will give me what I ask.

I am no longer a wasteral, no longer poor and obscure, and I will not give you up. I swear it by all that I have gone through today. I will not. If I have to kill with my own hand, everyone who stands in my way. And Crystal, smiling quite kindly and a little abstractedly at his impulsive earnestness, gently removed his hands from her shoulders and said calmly, You are tired, Maurice, and overwrought. Shall we go in and wait for Father? He will be getting anxious about me. And without waiting to see if he followed her,

she turned to walk toward the steps. St. Jenna smothered a violent oath, but he said nothing more. He was satisfied with what he had done. He knew that women liked a masterful man, and he meant every word, which he said, He would not give her up, not now, and not to ye gods, he would not think of that. He would not think of the lonely roadside, nor of the wounded man, who had robbed him of Crystal's love.

He had done his duty by Clifford. What more could he have done at this hour? and he meant to do more than that. He meant to go back to the English hospital as soon as possible to see that Clifford had every attention, every care, every comfort that human sympathy can bestow. What more could he do? He would have done no good by going out with the ambulance himself. Surely not. He would have missed seeing Crystal, and she would have fretted and been still more. anxious, his first duty was to Crystal, and St. Genis only thought of Crystal and of himself, and the voice of conscience was compulsorily stilled. Having lulled his conscience to sleep

and satisfied his self-love by a passionate tirade, Maris followed Crystal down the steps at the west front of St. Goodell. Immediately opposite them, the corner of the narrow rue de lignia was the old abreche de troy roy from whence the diligence started twice a day in time to catch the tide and the english packet at ostend maris and crystal stood for a moment together on the steps watching the bustle and excitement the comings and goings of the crowd which always attend such departures all day there had been a steady stream of fugitives out of the town, taking their belongings with them. The diligence was for the well-to-do, and the indifferent who hurried away to England to await the advent of more settled times. Victor de Marmont had secured his place inside the coach. He had exchanged his borrowed uniform for civilian clothes. He had bestowed his belongings in the vehicle and was standing about desultorily waiting for the hour of departure. The diligence would not arrive at Ostend

until five o'clock in the morning. Then with the tide, the packet would go out, getting into London well after midday. Chance, as represented by the tide, had seriously handicapped de Marmont's plans. But enthusiasm and doggedness of purpose whispered to him that he still held the winning card. The English packet was timed to arrive in London by two o'clock in the afternoon. He would still have two hours to his credit before closing time on change and another hour in the street. Time to find his broker and half an hour to spare. That would still leave him an hour wherein to make a fortune for his emperor. At one time he was afraid that he would not be able to be able to. He was afraid that he would not be able to secure a seat in the diligence, so numerous were the travelers who wished to leave Brussels

behind them. But in this chance and the length of his purse favored him, he bought his seat for an exorbitant price, but he bought it. And at nine o'clock, the diligence was timed to start. It was now half past eight, and just then de Marmont caught sight of Crystal and St. General us coming down the cathedral steps. He had half an hour to spare, and he followed them. He wanted to speak to Crystal. He had wanted it all day, but the difficulty of getting what clothes he required, and the trouble and time spent in bargaining for a seat in the diligence had stood in his way. M. Lecomte de Cambrai would never, of course, admit him inside his doors, and it would would have meant hanging about in the rue du marais and trusting to a chance meeting with crystal

when she went out, and for this he had not the time. And the chance meeting had come about in spite of all adverse circumstances, and de Marmont followed Crystal through the crowded streets, hoping that St. Janus would take leave of her before she went indoors. But even if he did not, De Marmont meant to have a few words with Crystal. He was going to win a gigantic fortune for the emperor, one wherewith that greatest of all adventurers could once again recreate the empire of France. He himself, rich already, would become richer still, and also, if his coup succeeded, one of the most trusted, most influential men in the recreated empire. He felt. that with the offer of his name, he could pour out a veritable cornucopia of abundant glory,

honors wealth at a woman's feet. And his ambition had always been bound up in a great measure with Crystal de Cambrai. He certainly loved her in his way for her beauty and her charm. But above all, he looked on her as the very personification of the old and proud regime. which had thought fit to scorn the parvenu nobles of the empire, and for a powerful adherent of Napoleon to be possessed of a wife out of that exclusive Malou was like a fresh and glorious trophy of war on a conqueror's chariot will. De Marmont had the supreme faith of an ambitious man in the power of wealth and of court favor. He knew that Napoleon was not a man who ever forgot a service efficiently rendered,

and would repay this one rendered at the supreme hour of disaster with a surfeit of gratitude and of gifts, which must perforce dazzle any woman's eyes and conquer her imagination. Besides his schemes, his ambitions, the future which awaited him, what had an impecunious wastrel like St. Genes to offer to a woman like Crystal de Cambrai. Outside the house in the Rue du Marais, where the Comte de Cambre lodged, St. Janice and Crystal paused, and de Marmont, who still kept within the shadows, waited for a favorable opportunity to make his presence known. I'll find Mr. Lecomte and bring him back with me. He heard St. Jean-Gertie.

Jenna saying, you are sure I shall find him at the legitimista. Quite sure, Crystal replied, he did not mean to leave the circle till about nine. He is sure to wait for every bit of news that comes in. It will be a great moment for me if I am the first to bring in authentic good news. You will be quite the first, I should say, she assented, but don't let father stay too long talking, bring him back quickly. Remember, I haven't heard all the news yet myself. St. Jenis went up to the front door and rang the bell. Then he took leave of Crystal. De Marmont waited his opportunity. Anon, Jean opened the door, and St. Genis walked quickly back down the street. Crystal paused a moment by the open door in order to talk to Jean,

and while she did so, de Marmont slipped quickly past her into the house and was some way down the corridor before the two women had recovered from their surprise. Jean, as was her wont, was ready to scream. But despite the fast gathering gloom, Crystal had at once recognized De Marmont. She turned a cold look upon him. An intrusion, Massour, she asked quietly, we'll call it, that mademoiselle, and you will, he replied imperturbably, and if you will kindly order your servant to go, it shall be a very brief one. My father is from home, she said. De Marmont smiled and shrugged his shoulders. I know that, he said, or I would not be here. Then your intrusion is that of a coward, if you knew that I was unprotected. Are you afraid of me, Crystal? He asked with a sneer.

I am afraid of no one, she replied, but since you and I have nothing to say to one another, I beg that you will no longer force your company upon me. Your pardon, but there is something very important which I must say to you. I have news of today's doings out there at Waterloo, which bear upon the whole of your future and upon your happiness. I myself leave for England, in less than half an hour. I was taking my place in the diligence outside the Troy Roy when I saw you coming down the cathedral steps. Fate has given me an opportunity for which I sought vainly all day. You will never regret it, Crystal, if you listen to me now. I listen, she broke in coolly. I pray you be as brief as you can. Will you order the servant to go? For a moment.

moment longer, she hesitated. Common sense told her that it was neither prudent nor expedient to hold converse with this man who was an avowed and bitter enemy of her cause, but he had spoken of the doings at Waterloo and spoken of them in connection with her own future and her happiness. And prudent or not, she wanted to hear what he had to say in the vague hope that from a chance word carelessly dropped by Victor de Marmont, she would glean, if only a scrap, some news of that on which St. Genes would not dwell, but on which hung her heart and her very life, the fate of the British troops. After all, he might know something, he might say something, which would help her to bear this intolerable misery of uncertainty, and on the merest chance of that,

She threw prudence to the winds. You may go, Jean, she said, but remain within call. Leave the front door open, she added, M.aacomte and M. Marquis, will be here directly. Oh, you are well protected, said Victor de Marmont, with a careless shrug of the shoulders, as Jean's heavy, shuffling footsteps, died away down the corridor. Now, Monsieur de Marmont, said Crystal Cooley, I listen.

She was leaning back against the wall, her hands behind her, her pale face and large blue eyes, with their black dilated pupils turned questioningly upon him. The walls of the corridor were painted white after the manner of Flemish houses. The tiled floor was white too, and Crystal herself was dressed all in white so that the whole scene, made up of pale, soft tints, looked weird and ghostly in the twilight, and crystal like an ethereal creature come down from the land of nymphs and of elves. And de Marmont, too, like St. Jenus a while ago, felt that never had this beautiful woman. She was no longer a girl now, looked more exquisite and more desirable, and he, conscious of the power which fortune

and success can give, thought that he could woo and win her once again, in spite of caste prejudice and of political hatred. St. Janice had felt his position unassailable by virtue of old associations, common sympathies, and youthful vows. De Marmont relied on feminine ambition, love of power, of wealth and of station. And at this moment, in Crystal's shining eyes, he only read excitement and the unspoken desire for all that he was prepared to offer. I have only a few moments to spare, Crystal, he said slowly and with earnest emphasis, so I will be very brief. For the moment, the Emperor has suffered a defeat, as he did at Ilo or at Leipzig. His defeats, his defeats are always momentary. His victories alone are decisive and abiding. The whole world knows that.

It needs no proclaiming from me. But in order to retrieve that momentary defeat of today, he has deigned to ask my help. The gods are good to me. They have put it within my power to help my emperor in his need. I am going to England tonight in order to carry out his instructions. By tomorrow afternoon, I shall have finished my work. The Empire of France will once more rise triumphant and glorious out of the ashes of a brief defeat. The emperor, once more, Phoebus-like, will drive the chariot of the sun, Lord and Master of Europe, greater since his downfall, more powerful, more majestic than ever before. And I, who will have been the humble instrument of his reconquered glory will deserve to the full his bounty and his gratitude.

He paused for lack of breath, for indeed, he had talked fast and volubly. Crystal's voice, cold and measured, broke in on the silence that ensued. And in what way does all this concern me, Monsieur de Marmont? she asked. It concerns your whole future, Crystal. he replied with ever-growing solemnity and conviction. You must have known all along that I have never ceased to love you. You have always been the only possible woman for me, my ideal, in fact. Your father's injustice I am willing to forget. Your troth was plighted to me, and I have done nothing to deserve all the insults which he thought fit to heap upon me. I wanted you to know.

Crystal, that my love is still yours, and that the fortune and glory, which I now go forth to win, I will place with inexpressible joy at your feet. She shrugged her shoulders, and an air of supreme indifference spread over her face. Is that all? She asked coldly, all, what do you mean? I don't understand. I mean that you persuaded me to listen to you on the pretense, that you had news to tell me of the doings at Waterloo, news on which my happiness depended. You have not told me a single fact that concerns me in the least. It concerns you as it concerns me, Crystal, your happiness is bound up with mine. You are still my promised wife. I go to win glory for my name, which will soon be yours.

You and I, Crystal, hand in hand, think of it. Our love has survived the political turmoils. United in love, united in glory. You and I will be the most brilliant stars that will shine at the Imperial Court of France. She did not try to interrupt his tirade, but looked on him with cool wonderment as one gazes on some curious animal

that is raving and raging behind. iron bars. When he had finished, she said quietly, you are mad, I think, Monsieur de Marmont, at any rate, you had better go now. Time is getting on, and you will lose your place in the diligence. He was less to her than the dust under her feet, and his protestations had not even the power to rouse her wrath. Indeed, all that worried her at the moment was fixation with herself for having troubled to listen to him at all. It had been worse than foolish to suppose that he had any news to impart which did not directly concern himself. So now, while he utterly taken aback, was staring at her open-mouthed and bewildered, she turned away,

cold and full of disdain, gathering her draperies round her, and started to walk. And slowly toward the stairs. Her clinging white skirt made a soft, swishing sound as it brushed the tiled floor, and she herself, with her slender figure, graceful neck, and crown of golden curls, looked as the gloom of evening wrapped her in, more like an intangible elf, an apparition, gliding through space, than just a scornful woman who had thought fit to reject the importune, addresses of an unwelcome suitor. She left de Marmont standing there in the corridor, like some presumptuous beggar, burning with rage and humiliation, too insignificant even to be feared. But he was not the man to accept such a situation calmly. His love for Crystal had never been

anything but a selfish one, born of the desire to possess a high-born, elegant wife, taken out of the very cast which had scorned him and his kind. Her acquiescence he had always taken for granted. Her love he meant to win, after his wooing of her hand, had been successful. Until then, he could wait. So certain, too, was he of his own power to win her in virtue of all that he had to offer, that he would not take her scorn for real, or her refusal to win her. to listen to him as final. End of Chapter 11, Part 1. Chapter 11, Part 2 of the Bronze Eagle by Baroness Orksey. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dionne's Salt Lake City, Utah. Before she had reached the foot of the stairs,

he was already by her side, and with a masterful hand upon her arm, had compelled her by physical strength to turn and to face him once more. Crystal, he said, forcing himself to speak quietly, even though his voice quivered with excitement and passionate wrath. As you say, I have only a few moments to spare, but they are just long enough for me to tell you that it is you who are mad. I dare say that it is difficult to believe in the immensity

of a disaster. Maris de St. Genes's, no doubt, has been filling your ears with tales of the Allied armies' victories. But look at me, Crystal, look at me, and tell me if you have ever seen a man more in deadly earnest. I tell you that I am on my way to aid the emperor in reforming his empire on a more solid basis than it has ever stood before. Have you ever known Napoleon? Have you ever known to fail in what he set himself to do. I tell you that he is not crushed, that he is not even defeated. Within a month, the allies will be on their knees begging for peace. The era of your Bourbon kings is more absolutely dead today than it has ever been. And after today, there will be nothing for a royalist like your father or like Maurice Day St. Genus, but exile,

and humiliation more dire than before. Your father's fate rests entirely in your hands. I can direct his destiny, his life or his death, just as I please. When you are my wife, I will forgive him the insults which he heaped on me at Brestelo, but not before. As for Marie's Day St. Genis, and what of him, you abominable cur. The shout which came from behind him checked the words on de Marmont's lips. He let go his hold of Crystal's arm as he felt two sinewy hands gripping him by the throat. The attack was so swift and so unexpected that he was entirely off his guard. He lost his footing upon the slippery floor, and before he could recover himself, he was being forced. back and back until his spine was bent nearly double, and his head pressed down backward almost

to the level of his knees. Let him go, Maurice. You might kill him. Throw him out of the door. It was Monsieur Lacomte de Cambre who spoke. He and St. Genis had arrived just in time to save Crystal from a further unpleasant scene. She, however, had not lost her presence of mind. she had certainly listened to de Marmont's final tirade because she knew that she was helpless in his hands, but she had never been frightened for a moment. Jean was within call, and she herself had never been timorous. At the same time, she was thankful enough that her father and St. Genes were here. Maurice was almost blind with rage.

He would have killed De Marmont, but for the comp's time, timely words, which luckily had the effect of sobering him at this critical moment. He relaxed his convulsive grip on de Marmont's throat, but the latter had already lost his balance. He fell heavily, his body sliding along the slippery floor, while his head struck against the projecting woodwork of the door. He uttered a loud cry of pain as he fell, then remained lying inert on the ground. and in the dim light his face took on an ashen hue. In an instant, Crystal was by his side. You have killed him, Maurice, she cried, as woman-like, tender and full of compassion. Now she ran to the stricken man. I hope I have, said St. Genis sullenly. He deserved the death

of a cur. Father, dear, said Crystal authoritatively, will you call to Jane to bring water, a sponge, towels, quickly, also some brandy. She paid no heed to St. Genus, and she had already forgotten to Marmont's dastardly attitude toward herself. She only saw that he was helpless and in pain. She knelt by his side, pillowed his head on her lap, and with soothing, gentle fingers, felt his shoulders, his arms, to see where he was hurt.

He opened his eyes very soon, and encountered those tender blue eyes so full of sweet pity now. It is only my head, I think, he said. Then he tried to move, but fell back again with a groan of pain. My leg is broken. I am afraid, he murmured feebly. I had best fetch a doctor rejoined Monsieur Lacomte. If you can find one, father dear, said Crystal,

Mr. de Marmont ought to be moved at once to his home. No, no, protested Victor feebly, not home to the Troy Roy, the diligence. I must go to England tonight, the emperor's orders. The doctor will decide, said Crystal gently. Father, dear, will you go? Jean came back with water and brandy. De Marmont drank eagerly of the one and then sipped the other. I must go, he said more firmly.

The diligence starts at nine o'clock. Again he tried to move, and a great cry of agony rose to his throat, not of physical pain, though that was great too, but the wild agonizing shriek of mental torment, of disappointment and wrath and misery greater than human heart could bear. The emperor's orders, he cried, I must go. Crystal was silent. There was something great and majestic, something that compelled admiration and respect in this tragic impotence, this failure brought about by uncontrolled passion at the very hour when success, perhaps, might yet have changed the whole destinies of the world. De Marmont, lying here, helpless to aid his emperor through the furious and jealous attack

of arrival, was at this moment more worthy of a good woman's regard than he had been in the flush of his success and of his arrogance, for his one thought was of the emperor and what he could no longer do for him. He tried to move and could not. The emperor's orders came at times with pathetic persistence from his lips, and crystal, woman-like, tried to soothe and comfort him in his failure, even though his triumph would only have aroused her scorn. And time sped on, from the towers of the cathedral came booming the hour of nine. The shadows in the narrow street were long and dark, only a pale, thin reflex of the cold light of the moon struck into the open doorway and the white corridor, and detached de Marmont's pale face from the

surrounding gloom. The Emperor's orders, and because of a woman, these could now no longer be obeyed, if de Marmont had not seen Crystal on the cathedral stouts, if he had not followed her, if he had not allowed his passion and arrogant self-will to blind him to time and to surroundings, who knows, but the whole map of Europe might yet have been changed. A fortune in London was a way a gambler who chose to stake everything on a last throw, a fortune wherewith the greatest adventurer the world has ever known might yet have reconstituted an army and reconquered an empire, and he who might have won that fortune was lying in the narrow corridor of an humble lodging house with a broken leg, helpless and eating out his heart now with vain regret.

Why? Because of a girl with fair curls and blue eyes, just a woman, young and desirable, another tiny pawn in the hands of the great master of this world's game. The rain in the morning at Waterloo, Blooker's arrival or grouches, a man's selfish passion for a woman who cared nothing for him. Who shall dare to say that these tiny, trivial incidents changed the destinies of the world. Think on it, oh, ye materialists, ye worshippers of chance, it is indeed the infinitesimal doings of pygmies that bring about the great upheavals of the earth. Do ye not rather see God's will in that fall of rain? God's breath in those dying heroes who fell on Mont Saint-Gene? do ye not recognize that it was God's finger that pointed the way to Bluquer and stretched

de Marmont down helpless on the ground? The arrival of Messrs. Lecombe de Cambre, accompanied by a doctor and two men carrying an improvised stretcher, broke the spell of silence that had fallen on this strange scene of pathetic failure, which seemed but an humble counterpart of that great and irretrievable one which was being enacted at this same hour far away on the road to Gannap. After the booming of the cathedral clock, de Marmont had ceased to struggle. He accepted defeat probably because he too, in spite of himself, saw that the day of his idol's destiny was over, and that the brilliant star, which had glittered on the firmament of Europe for a quarter of a century, had by the will of God now irretrievably declined. He had accepted Crystal's ministrations for his comfort

with a look of gratitude. Gene had put a pillow to his head, and he now lay outwardly placid and quiescent. Even perhaps, for such is human nature and such the heart of youth, as he saw Crystal's sweet face bent with so much pity toward him, a sense of hope, of happiness yet to be, chased the more melancholy thoughts away. Crystal was kind, he argued to himself. She has already forgiven. Women are so ready to forgive faults and errors that spring from an intensity of love. He sought her hand, and she gave it, just as a sweet sister of mercy and gentleness would do, for whom the individual man, even the enemy, does not exist, only the suffering human creature whom her touch can soothe. He persuaded himself easily enough

that when he pressed her hand, she returned the pressure, and renewed hope went forth once more, soaring upon the wings of fancy. Then the doctor came. M. LaCompte had been fortunate in securing him, had with impulsive generosity promised him ample payment, and then brought him along without delay. He praised Mademoiselle de Cambrai for her kindness to the patient, asked a few questions as to how the accident had occurred, and was satisfied that Maud de Marmont had slipped on the tiled floor and then struck his head against the door. He was not likely to examine the purple bruises on the patient's throat. His business began and ended with a broken leg to mend. As Monsieur Lecomte de Cambrai assured him that Monsieur de Marmont was very wealthy, the worthy doctor most readily offered his

patient the hospitality of his own house until complete recovery. He, then superintended the lifting of the sick man onto the stretcher, and having taken final leave of M. LaComte, mademoiselle, and all those concerned, and given his instructions to the bearers, he was the first to leave the house. M. Lecompt, pleasantly conscious of Christian duty, toward an enemy nobly fulfilled, nodded curtly to DeMarmont, whom he hated with all his heart, and then turned his back on an exceedingly unpleasant scene, fervently wishing that it had never occurred in his house, and equally fervently thankful that the accident had not more fateful consequences. He retired to his smoking room, calling to St. Genes and to Crystal to follow him.

But Crystal did not go at once. She stood in the dark corridor, quite still, watching the stretcher-bearers in their careful silent work, little guessing on what a filmy thread her whole destiny was hanging at this moment. The fates were spinning, spinning, spinning, and she did not know it. Had the solemn silence which hung so ominously in the twilight not been broken till after the sick man had been born away, the whole of Crystal's future would have been shaped differently. But as with the rain at Waterloo, God had need of a tool for the furtherance of his will,

and it was Maurice Day St. Genus, whom he chose. Maurice, who with his own words, set the final seal to his destiny. De Marmont's eyes, as he was being carried over the threshold, dwelt upon the graceful form

of crystal, clad all in white, all womanliness and gentleness now. Her sweet, face only faintly distinguishable in the gloom. St. Genis, whose nerves were still jarred with all that he had gone through today and irritated by crystals' assiduity beside the sick man, resented that last look of farewell which

de Marmont dared to throw upon the woman whom he loved. An ungenerous impulse caused him to try and aim a last moral blow at his enemy. Come, Crystal, he said coldly, the man has been better looked after than he deserves, but for your father's interference, I should have wrung his neck like the cowardly brute that he was. And with the masterful air of a man who has both right and privilege on his side, he put his arm round Crystal's waist and tried to draw her away. And as he did so, he whispered a tender, come, Crystal, in her ear. De Marmont, who at this moment was taking a last fond look at the girl he loved and was busy the while making plans for a happy future, wherein Crystal would play the chief role

and would console him for all disappointments by the magnitude of her love. De Marmont was brought back from the land of dreams by the tender whisperings of his rival, his own helplessness sent a flood of jealous wrath surging up to his brain. The wild hatred which he had always felt for St. Genus ever since that awful humiliation, which he had suffered at Brestolo, now blinded him to everything, save to the fact that here was a rival who was gloating over his helplessness, a man who twice already had humiliated him before Crystal de Cambrai, a man who had every advantage of caste and of community of sympathy, a man, therefore, who must be in his turn irretrievably crushed in the sight of the woman

whom he still hoped to win. De Marmont had no definite idea as to what he meant to do. Perhaps just at this moment, the pale, intangible shadow of reason had lifted up one corner of the veil that hid the truth from before his eyes. The absolute and naked fact that Crystal the Cambrai was not destined for him. She would never marry him, never. The Empire of France was no more. The emperor was a fugitive. To St. Genes and his cast belonged to the future, and the turn had come for the adherents of the fallen emperor to sink into obscurity. or to go into exile. Be that as it may,

it is certain that in this fateful moment, de Marmont was only conscious of an all-powerful, overwhelming feeling of hatred and the determination that whatever happened to himself, he must and would prevent St. Genes from ever approaching Crystal de Cambrai

with words of love again. That he had the power to do this, he was fully conscious. Crystal, he called, and at the same time ordered the bearers to halt on the doorstep for a moment. Crystal, will you give me your hand in farewell? The young girl would probably have complied with his wish, but St. Genesis interposed. Crystal, he said authoritatively, your father has already called you. You have done everything that Christian charity demands. And once more, he tried to draw the young girl away. Do not touch her man, called de Marmont in a loud voice. A coward like you has no right to touch the hand of a good woman. M. De Marmont broke in crystal hotly.

You presume on your helplessness. Pay no heed to the ravings of a maniac crystal, interposed St. Janus calmly. He has fallen so low now that contemptuous pity, is all that he deserves. And contempt without pity is all that you deserve, M. Le Marquis de Saint-Generes, cried de Marmot, excitedly. Ask him, Mademoiselle Crystal, ask him, where is the man who today saved his life, whom I myself saw today on the roadside, wounded and half dead with fatigue on horseback, with the inert body of M. de Saint-Genis lying across his saddlebow. Ask him how he came to lie across that saddlebow, and whether his English friend and mine, Bobby Clifford, did not, as any who passed by could guess, drag him out of that hell at Waterloo

and bring him into safety whilst risking his own life. Ask him, he continued, working himself up into a veritable fever of vengeful hatred, as he saw that St. Genes, sullen and glowering, was doing his best to drag Crystal away, to prevent her from listening further to this awful indictment. These ravings of a lunatic half distraught with hate. Ask him, where is Clifford now? To what lonely spot he has crawled in order to die, while Monsieur Le Marquis de Saint-Genis came back in gay apparel to court Mademoiselle Crystal, Ah, Massaure de St. Genus, you tried to heap opprobrium upon me. You talked glibly of contempt and of pity. Of a truth, tis I do pity you now, for Mademoiselle Crystal will surely ask you all those questions,

and by the Lord, I marvel how you will answer them. He fell back exhausted in a dead faint, no doubt, and St. Genus, with a wild cry like that of a beast in fury, seized the nearest weapon that came to his hand, a heavy oak chair, which stood against the wall in the corridor, and brandished it over his head. He would, had not Crystal at once interposed, have killed De Marmont with one blow. Even so, he tried to avoid Crystal in order to forge for himself a clear passage to free himself from all trammels so that he might indulge his lust to kill. Take the sick man away quickly, cried Crystal, to the stretcher-bearers, and they, realizing the danger, the awfulness of the tragedy which, with that clumsy weapon,

wielded by a man who was maddened with rage, was hovering in the air, hurried over the threshold with their burden as fast as they could. Then out into the street, and Crystal, seizing hold of the front door, shut it to with a loud bang after them. Then, with a cry that was just primitive in its passion, savage almost like that of a lioness in the desert who has been robbed of her young, she turned upon St. Genus. Where is he now? she called, and her voice was quite unrecognizable, harsh and hoarse and peremptory. Crystal, let me assure you, protested Marys, that I have already done all that lay in my

power. Where is he now? She broke in with the same fierce intensity. She stood there before him, wild, haggard, palpitating, a passionate creature, passionately demanding to know where the loved one was. It seemed as if she would have torn the words out of St. Genesis's throat. so bitter and intense was the look of contempt and of hatred, wherewith she looked on him. Monsieur Lecompt, very much upset and ruffled by all that he had heard, came out of his room just in time to see the stretcher-bearers disappearing with their burden through the front door,

and the door itself closed, too, with a bang by crystal, truly his sense of decorum and of the fitness of things, had received a severe shock, and now he had the additional mortification of seeing his beautiful daughter, his dainty and aristocratic crystal, an estate bordering on frenzy. My darling Crystal, he exclaimed, as he made his way quickly to her side and put a restraining hand upon her arm. But Crystal was now far beyond his control. She shook off his hand. She paid no heed to him. She went closer up to St. Genus, and once more repeated her ardent, passionate query. Where is he now? At the English hospital, I hope, said St. Janus, with as much cool dignity

as he could command, have I not assured you, Crystal, that I've done all I could? At the English hospital, you hope, she retorted in a voice that sounded trenchant and shrill through the the overwhelming passion which shook and choked it in her throat. But the roadside, where you left him, to die in a ditch, perhaps, like a dog that has no home? Where was that? I gave full directions at the English hospital, he replied. I arranged for an ambulance to go and find him. For a bed for him, I give me those directions, she commanded.

On the way to Waterloo, on the left side of the road, Close by the six-kilometer milestone, the angle of the forest of Sonia is just there, and there is a meadow which joins the edge of the wood where they were making hay today. No driver can fail to find the place, Crystal, the ambulance. But now she was no longer listening to him. She had abruptly turned her back on him and made for the door. Her father interposed, what do you want to do? Crystal, he said peremptorily, go to him, of course, she said quietly, for she was quite calm now,

at any rate outwardly, strong and upset purpose, but you do not know where he is. I'll go to the English hospital first, Father dear, will you let me pass? Crystal, said Mr. Lecompt firmly, as he stood his ground between his daughter and the door, you cannot go rushing through the streets of Brussels alone at this hour of the night, through all the soldiery and all the drunken rabble. He is dying, she retorted, and I am going to find him. You have taken leave of your senses, Crystal, said the comp, sternly. You seem to have forgotten your own personal dignity.

Father, let me go, she demanded, for she had tried to measure her physical strength against his, and he was holding her wrists now whilst a look of great anger was on his face. I tell you, Crystal, he said that you cannot go. I will do all that lies in my power in the matter, I promise you. And Maurice, he added harshly, if he has a spark of manhood left in him, will do his best to second me. But I cannot allow my daughter to go into the streets at this hour of the night, but you cannot prevent your sister from doing as she likes. Here broke in a tart voice from the back of the corridor. Crystal, child, try and bear up while I run to the English hospital first, and if necessary, to the English doctor afterwards,

and you, masseur, my brother, be good enough to allow Jean to open the door for me. And Madame La Duchess De Ajan in bonnet and shawl, helpful and practical, made her way quietly to the door, preceded by faithful Jean. With a cry of infinite relief, almost of happiness, Crystal at last managed to disengage herself from her father's grasp and ran to the old woman. Matante, she said imploringly, take me with you. If I do not go to find him now, At once, my heart will break. Masur Lecompt shrugged his shoulders and stood aside. He knew that in an argument with his sister, he would surely be worsted, and there was a look in Madame's face, which, even in this dim twilight, he knew how to interpret. It meant that Madame would carry out her program, just as she had stated it, and that she would take Crystal with her.

with or without the father's consent. So realizing this, M. Saint-Lacomte had but one course left open to him, and that was to safeguard his own dignity by making the best of this situation, of which he's still highly disapproved. Well, my dear Sophie, he said, I suppose if you insist on having your way, you must have it, though what the women of our rank are coming to nowadays, I cannot imagine. At the same time, I, for my part, must insist that Crystal at least puts on a bonnet and shawl and does not career about the streets dressed like a kitchen wench. Crystal whispered Madame, who was nothing, if not practical, do as your father wishes. It will save a lot of argument and save

time as well. But even before the words were out of Madame's mouth, Crystal was running along the corridor, ready to obey. At the foot of the stairs, St. Janice intercepted her. Let me pass, she cried wildly. Not before you have said that you have forgiven me, he entreated as he clung to her white draperies with a passionate gesture of appeal. An exclamation, which was almost one of loathing, escaped her lips, and with a jerk she freed her skirt from his clutch. Then she ran quickly up the stairs. Outside the door of her own room, on the first landing, she paused for one minute, and from out of the gloom her voice came to him like the knell of passing hope. If he comes back alive out of the hell to which you condemned him, she said, I may in the future endure the

sight of you again. If he dies, may God forgive you. The opening and shutting of a door told him that she was gone, and he was left in company with his shame. End of Chapter 11, Part 2. Chapter 12 of the Bronze Eagle by Emma Orksey. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Dion Gines, Salt Lake City, Utah. The winning hand. Until far into the night, the air reverberated with incessant cannonade from the direction of Janap and from that of Weavera. But just before dawn, all was still. The stream of convoys, which bore the wounded along the road to Brussels from Mont Saint-Jean and Hugamont and Laha Saint had momentarily seized.

its endless course. The sky had that perfect serenity of a midsummer's night, starlit and azure, with the honey-colored moon sinking slowly down towards the west. Here at the edge of the wood, the air had a sweet smell of wet earth and damp moss and freshly cut hay. It had all the delicious softness of a loved one's embrace. Through the roar of distant cannonade, Bobby had slept. For a time after St. Genus left him, he had watched the long straight road with dull unseeing eyes. He had seen the first convoy overfilled with wounded men lying huddled on heaped up straw and had thanked God that he was lying on this exquisitely soft. carpet made of thousands of tiny green plants, moss, grass, weeds, young tendrils, and growing

buds and opening leaves that were delicious to the touch. He had quite forgotten that he was wounded. Neither his head nor his leg nor his arm seemed to hurt him now, and he was able to think in peace of crystal and of her happiness. St. Genus would have come to her by then. She would be happy to see him safe and well, and perhaps in the midst of her joy she would think of the friend who so gladly offered up his life for her. When the air around was no longer shaken by constant repercussion, Bobby fell asleep. It was not yet dawn, even though far. Fulnerner, even though away in the east, there was a luminous veil that made the sky look like living silver. Behind him, among the trees, there was a moving and a fluttering.

The birds were no longer asleep. They had not begun to sing, but they were shaking out their feathers and opening tiny, round eyes in farewell to the departing night. That gentle fluttering was a sweet lullaby, and Bobby slept and dreamed. He dreamed that the fluttering became louder and louder, and that instead of birds, it was a group of angels that shook their wings and stood around him as he slept. One of the angels came nearer and laid a hand upon his head, and Bobby dreamed that the angel spoke, and the words that it said filled Bobby's heart with unearthly happiness. My love, my love, the angel said, will you try and live for my sake?

And Bobby would not open his eyes for fear the angel should go away, and though he knew exactly where he was and could feel the soft carpet of leaves and smell the sweetme. moisture in the air, he knew that he must still be dreaming, for angels are not of this earth. Then a strong, kind hand touched his wrist and felt the beating of his heart, and a rough, pleasant voice said in English, he is exhausted and very weak, but the fever is not high. He will soon be all right. And to add to the wonderful strangeness of his dream, The angel's voice near him murmured, Thank God, thank God.

Why should an angel thank God that he, Bobby Clifford, was not likely to die? He opened his eyes to see what it all meant, and he saw bending over him, a face that was more exquisitely fair than any that man had ever seen, eyes that were more blue than the sky above, lips that trembled like rose leaves in the breeze. He was still dreaming, and there was a haze between him

and that perfect vision of loveliness. And the kind, rough voice somewhere close by said, Have you got that stretcher ready? And two other voices replied, yes, sir. But the lips close above him said nothing, and it was Bobby, who now murmured, my love, is it you? Your love for always, the dear lips replied, Nothing shall part us now. Yours for always to bring you back to life. Yours when you will claim me. Yours for life.

They lifted him onto a stretcher and then into a carriage and a very kind face, which he quickly enough recognized as Madame La Duchess de Agence, smiled very encouragingly upon him. whereupon he could not help but ask a very pertinent question. Madame la Duchess, is all this really happening? Why, yes, my good man, madame replied, and indeed there was nothing dreamlike in her tart, dry voice. Crystal and I really have dragged Dr. Scott away from the bedside of innumerable other sick and wounded men,

and also from any hope of well-earned rest tonight. We have also really brought him to a spot very accurately described by our worthy friend, St. Janus, but where, unfortunately, you had not chosen to remain, else we had found you an hour sooner. Is there anything else you want to know? Oh, yes, Madame la Duchess, many things murmured Bobby. please go on telling me. Madame laughed. Well, she said,

perhaps you would like to know that some kind of instinct or perhaps the hand of God guided one of our party to the place where you had gone to sleep. You may also wish to know that though you seem in a bad way for the present,

you are going to be nursed back to life under Dr. Scott's own most hospitable roof. But since Crystal has undertaken to do the nursing, I imagine that my time for the next six weeks will be taken up in arguing with my dear and pompous brother that he will now have to give his consent to his daughter becoming the wife of a vendor of gloves. Bobby contrived to smile. Do you think that if I promised never to buy or sell gloves again, but in future to try and live like a gentleman, do you think then that he will consent?

I think, my dear boy, said Madame, subduing her harsh voice to tones of gentleness, that after my brother knows all that I know and all that his daughter desires, he will be proud to welcome you as his son. The doctor's wide barouche lumbered slowly along the wide straight road. In the east, the luminous veil that still hid the rising sun had taken on a hue of rosy gold. The birds now fully awake, sang their mourning hymn. From the direction

of Weaver came once more the cannon's roar. Inside the carriage, Dr. Scott, sitting at the feet of his patient, gave a peremptory order for silence. But Bobby, immeasurably, happy and contented, looked up and saw Crystal de Cambrai, no longer a girl now, but a fair and beautiful woman who had learned to the last letter the fulsome lesson of love. She sat close beside him, and her arm was round his reclining head, and looking at her, he saw the love light in her dear eyes whenever she turned them on him. And anon, when Madame La Duchess engaged Dr. Scott in a close and heated argument, Bobby felt sweet-scented lips pressed against his own. End of Chapter 12. End of the Bronze Eagle, A Story of the Hundred Days by Baroness Emma Orksey.