"The charge against you was the writing of a contumelious lampoon upon the then Marquise de la Vallière and holding her up to contempt and derision. For that the lettre de cachet concerning you was signed by--by a then illustrious personage. That letter was an open one, unlimited as to the continuance of its effect----" "The charge was true," murmured the marquis, "the punishment cruel beyond all thought." "Monsieur le Marquis," interposed the judge, while his voice sounded even sweeter, more silvery than before, "I must remind you of what doubtless in the passage of years you have forgotten: There must be no criticism here, no discussion of those who are, or once were, all-powerful. Monsieur, I represent the King's Majesty; let me beg of you to offend--unintentionally, no doubt--no more." He paused a moment, and it seemed as if some bird had ceased to warble its innocent notes; then he continued: "The family of La Vallière is now practically extinct. The King, in his sublime goodness, is therefore pleased to ordain that you shall no longer be asked to remain here. Monsieur le Marquis de Chevagny, permit me to congratulate you. You may depart at any time most convenient to you." The old man raised his hand to his long white beard and stroked it thoughtfully for a moment; then he, in his clear aristocratic tones, replied: "You congratulate me, monsieur, on what? On a wasted, ruined life, perhaps; a prison for forty-five years; an existence given me by God and taken away by man; a home desolated; a broken heart--nay, two, if not three, broken hearts; and all for what? A youthful folly, a joke made in the exuberance of a young man's spirit. Oh, monsieur, spare me your congratulations! If you were even born when I first came here, think, think of the passage of those years, think of what lives you have known, think of the use they have been put to, and then reflect on mine. Surely your congratulations are the last bitter drop." "Monsieur de Chevagny," replied the judge, "I must not argue with you. Yet one word I will say: I had no part in sending you here; my share is only to tell you that you are free." And he took up in his jewelled hand a fresh batch of papers, and, stooping forward, whispered something to the registrar. As the old man tottered back to the stool he had risen from, that functionary said: "Elphinston, captain of the Regiment of Picardy, formerly of the Regiment of Scots Dutch, answer to your name." "My name," said Bertie, advancing to the rail and standing as the marquis had previously stood, "is Elphinston, and I am of the Regiment of Picardy. I never served in the Scots Dutch Regiment." With an almost imperceptible start D'Argenson bent his dark, luminous eyes on him, as did all the other judges, who had sat like dead men in their seats, while De Launey, with the King's Lieutenant and the registrar, also cast surprised looks on him.