"Sent a storm, so the attempt was abandoned, and Monsieur Howe stood off to sea, where many of his transports were dashed to pieces." "Many must have perished, and among them may be some of my dear friends!" said I, sadly. "I hope not, monsieur. But your people should not have landed in Brittany, which has ever been the best bulwark of France--'La Bretagne, Brettonnante,' as we say. When the wild Norseman menaced our shores, in the days of King Dagobert, it was here they met with the most bloody resistance. Here Bertrand de Gruesclin routed the English in the days of Charles VI., and here, too, were they defeated in the days of Charles VII. by Arthur Count of Richemont, who was Constable of France and Duke of Bretagne; while in the last century your fleets were swept from our shores by those of Du Guay Trouin. So excuse me saying, _mon ami_, that you were most unwise to attack our old Celtic province of Brittany." I could scarcely conceal a smile at this little bit of gasconade, when I remembered how much mischief we had done to government property, the ships and stores we had destroyed, unopposed by any armed force save a few hussars; but the loveliness of the lips that spoke repressed the rising spirit of retort. "However," she added, smiling, "I am a Parisienne--_not_ a Bretonne." "And why--why----" "What, monsieur le soldat?" "Why banished to this wild province?" "I am not banished, as you unpleasantly term it," said she, colouring; "but while my father is at the head of an army in Germany, he prefers that I should reside here, with my aunt, Madame de Bourgneuf. But we have talked too long, and I must have wearied you." "You, mademoiselle!" I was beginning, when she rose and said-- "Another day I will visit you, so, for the present, adieu." I was no longer the bashful boy who had so timidly confessed his love to little Ruth Wylie. A few months of soldiering had rubbed the rust completely off me. Thus, when this French girl, with all her imposing presence, her long train, and her hair _à la marquise_, presented her hand to me, I pressed it to my lips with an air so tender and withal so perfectly confident, that she withdrew it rather hastily and retired. I was again alone. Strange and mysterious was the power that lurked in those lovely eyes--in the slow droop of the fringed lids, and their upward sweep when they flashed in smiles upon me. I lay back in my easy-chair and closed my eyes, but they still seemed to see the face and form of Jacqueline de Broglie. CHAPTER VI. BOURGNEUF. The chateau of Bourgneuf, within which I so singularly found myself an inhabitant, stands* on the north slope of a hill, about a mile from the old highway that leads from Dol to Rennes, the capital of Brittany, where _bourg_ signifies especially a village or residence. * We may now say _stood_, as it was demolished in the wars subsequent to the Revolution.