Charlemagne at the head of his Army, 124 Ye Olde City of Mouzon, 164 Cathedral of Mouzon, 216 Cathedral Door, Mouzon, 244 MAUGIS, YE SORCERER. CHAPTER I. (A CABLEGRAM.) SEDAN, PROVINCE D’ARDENNES, FRANCE. “_To Lord Gilhooley,_ “_Albemarle Hotel,_ “_New York. U. S. A._ “The hermit of the Maison Maugis, Monzon, committed suicide to-day. +Albert.+” Apropos of the above, about ten days later I received a letter from which the following is an extract: “He was found lying, entirely stripped, upon the floor. He had strangled himself with a cord, having previously broken up every article of furniture, gathered and burned in the huge fireplace every object of wearing apparel, all papers and everything movable, until the house was made absolutely bare. His death created a profound sensation, as it was rumored that he had in his possession some very old and curious manuscripts relating to the time of Charlemagne. An elaborate search of the premises failed to disclose anything, except some burned fragments of parchment in the ashes of the fireplace. He had jealously guarded his discovery during his life and was supposed to be somewhat demented, which may account for the lamentable destruction of these precious records. Now you are freed from your oath, give the world what you have.” The past then came back to me, as plainly as if it had only occurred yesterday. I could see in my mind that merry breakfast party, three months agone, in the great dining hall of the Château Baudelot at Haraucourt, in the valley of the Emmene, Ardennes, France. I could remember, as if it happened only this morning, when Albert said: “It is very strange how things happen in this world. Life presents some threads so fearfully tangled that it often seems as if matters were hopeless; when lo, some little eddy in the tide of fortune swirls the knotted kinks apart and all is well once more.” “Very good, Albert,” said I, “and this is apropos of what?” “Oh, nothing,” answered he, “only the thought just came into my mind.” “Perhaps,” said his sister Mathilde, “his omelette is not agreeing with him.” “No,” exclaimed Louise, “that is not it—he is going to take cousin Frederick to Mouzon to-day, and it is there that some episode is to occur to put some new wrinkles in his existence.” Said with smiles and laughter, these words were pathetic. I shall never forget that day in Mouzon.