“Yes, bitterly he repented it; and although he never confessed it, I could see that he had been deceived by others, and turned from his own high-souled purpose, respecting his sister. I wonder what became of Claude,--he entered the Church.” “Ay, and lies there now,” replied the abbé, sternly. “Poor fellow! is he dead, too? and so young.” “Yes; he contrived to entangle himself in some Jacobite plot.” “Why, he was a Royalist.” “So he was. It might have been another conspiracy, then,--some _Chouan_ intrigue. Whatever it was, the Government heard of it. He was arrested at the door of his own _presbyière_; the grenadiers were drawn up in his own garden; and he was tried, condemned, and shot in less than an hour. The officer of the company ate the dinner that was preparing for him.” “What a destiny! And Marie de Meudon?” “Hush! the name is proscribed. The De Meudons professed strong Royalist opinions, and Bonaparte would not permit her bearing her family name. She is known by that of her mother's family except by those poor minions of the Court who endeavor, with their fake affectation, to revive the graceful pleasantries of Marie Antoinette's time, and they call her La Rose de Provence.” “La Bose de Provence,” cried I, springing up from my chair, “the sister of Charles!” while a thrill of ecstasy ran through my frame,--followed the moment after by a cold, faint feel,--and I sank almost breathless in the chair. “Ha!” cried the abbè, leaning over me, and holding the lamp close to my face, “what--” And then, as he resumed his place, he slowly muttered between his teeth, “I did not dream of this!” Not a word was now spoken by either. The abbè, sat mute and motionless, his eyes bent upon the floor, and his hands clasped before him. As for me, every emotion of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, succeeded one another in my mind; and it was only as I thought of De Beauvais once more that a gloomy despair spread itself before me, and I remembered that he loved her, and how the abbè, hinted his passion was returned. “The day is breaking,” said D'Ervan, as he opened the shutter and looked out; “I must away. Well, I hope I may tell my poor friend De Beauvais that you 'll not refuse his request. Charles de Meudon's sister may have a claim on your kindness too.” “If I thought that she--” “You mean, that she loved him. You must take his word for that; she is not likely to make a confidant of you. Besides, he tells you it's a last meeting; you can scarcely say nay. Poor girl, he is the only one remaining to her of all her house! On his departure you are not more a stranger here than is she in the land of her fathers.” “I'll do it I I'll do it!” cried I, passionately. “Let him meet me where he mentioned; I 'll be there.” “That's as it should be,” said the abbé, grasping my hand, and pressing it fervently. “But come, don't forget you must pass me through this same cordon of yours.”