Leaving the inmates of Château Coulancourt in a rather troubled and apprehensive state of mind, we beg our readers to follow us into an apartment of the mansion inhabited by Monsieur Gramont. Stretched on a bed, in a remote chamber of the house, lay Augustine Vadier; his right eye had been knocked out by a splinter of rock, and although the piece had been extracted, and the wound bound up by a surgeon from Havre, the eye was gone for ever, and there was considerable danger from inflammation. Notwithstanding this severe visitation and suffering, Augustine Vadier showed no kind of remorse for his past crimes, or evinced any symptoms of regret; on the contrary, his passion and vexation at being the only one wounded, and the escape of the person he intended to entrap, rendered the fever much worse. “Has Monsieur Gramont arrived?” demanded Vadier of the sulky domestic that attended to his wants. “He has not,” returned the man, “but he will be here before mid-day; he slept at Havre.” “So those sacre Anglais have cut out the vessels in Palos Creek,” muttered Vadier, with a smothered execration; “this would not have occurred if that lazy rascal, the coast-guard, had followed my directions. We should have entrapped that English spy, who was here amongst those traitors at the Château Coulancourt, for the purpose of prying into the situation of the Vengeance. If, instead of watching the movements of the corvette, they had posted themselves on the sand-hills, they would have secured them all. Curse them! I am the only sufferer.” “Wouldn’t care if they had settled you out and out,” muttered the man to himself. “Ah! there is Monsieur Gramont riding into the yard.” “Prop me up with pillows,” said the sick man, “for he will be with me directly.” The domestic did so, grumbling at having an office put upon him that an old woman would have done better. “Yes, rascal,” exclaimed the irritated invalid, “le diable, for that matter, would do better than you, thankless scoundrel; your master shall hear of your insolence.” “I don’t care who hears of it,” said the man, walking away. “You promised me five hundred francs for making Dedan a spy on her mistress, where are they?” A few minutes afterwards Bertram Gramont, in his riding-dress, entered the chamber, closing the door after him. “Here’s a pretty mess you have got yourself into,” said the maire, throwing himself into a chair by the bedside. “Did I not tell you to take things quietly till my return? and now here you are with your eye knocked out; and worse, our prey escaped, when I have an order from Fouché, the Minister of Police, to arrest the whole party, and send them prisoners to Paris. I may almost consider the Coulancourt estate as mine.”