“Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter of introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in Paris. He is also the bearer of a second confidential epistle for his eminence. “Oliver Cromwell.” “Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, “give me this second letter and sit down.” The young man drew from his pocket a second letter, presented it to the cardinal, and took his seat. The cardinal, however, did not unseal the letter at once, but continued to turn it again and again in his hand; then, in accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience that few people could hide anything from him when he began to question them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same time, he thus addressed the messenger: “You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult task of ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often fail.” “My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence is mistaken in saying that I am young. I am older than your eminence, although I possess not your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my opinion, count double, and I have suffered for twenty years.” “Ah, yes, I understand,” said Mazarin; “want of fortune, perhaps. You are poor, are you not?” Then he added to himself: “These English Revolutionists are all beggars and ill-bred.” “My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it has been taken from me.” “You are not, then, a man of the people?” said Mazarin, astonished. “If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my name you would have heard one of the most illustrious names of England.” “What is your name, then?” asked Mazarin. “My name is Mordaunt,” replied the young man, bowing. Mazarin now understood that Cromwell’s envoy desired to retain his incognito. He was silent for an instant, and during that time he scanned the young man even more attentively than he had done at first. The messenger was unmoved. “Devil take these Puritans,” said Mazarin aside; “they are carved from granite.” Then he added aloud, “But you have relations left you?” “I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask his support and three times he ordered his servants to turn me away.” “Oh, _mon Dieu!_ my dear Mr. Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, hoping by a display of affected pity to catch the young man in a snare, “how extremely your history interests me! You know not, then, anything of your birth—you have never seen your mother?” “Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child, to my nurse’s house; I remember the last time she came as well as if it were to-day.” “You have a good memory,” said Mazarin. “Oh! yes, my lord,” said the young man, with such peculiar emphasis that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every vein. “And who brought you up?” he asked again. “A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old because no one paid her for me, telling me the name of a relation of whom she had heard my mother often speak.” “What became of you?”