think you?"
"Heaven knows! Yet almost I think it must be so. She jilted me, but, but-'tis hard to believe she was a wicked, wanton woman. She would not have gone with him unless they were married-or, at least, were soon to be married."
"And this was-when?"
"Three years ago, soon after the Frenchwoman came first to England, brought over in the suite of the Duchess of Orleans."
"'Tis pity you never told me all," said Andrew, "specially since I might have made my way to Paris after Candia!"
"Andrew, I was ashamed, ashamed that even you should know it. And-and-what could you have done?"
"What!" exclaimed his brother. "What! Well! tested the skill of this maître d'armes-perhaps avenged you."
"It might have made a widow of her, left her alone and defenceless in a strange land."
"Possibly!" Andrew replied to this, with the careless shrug of the shoulders which he had learnt unconsciously in his foreign travel. "Possibly!" And again he spoke inwardly to himself, saying, "As I shall do yet-if he has married her."
There was silence after this for some time as they sat in the now gathering darkness, a silence only interrupted by Bridget bringing in the lamps. But when she had left them alone once more, after telling Andrew he was sitting too long with his brother, who by now should be abed, and that she would be back to assist him to it, the former spoke again.
"Bridget hinted a word," he said, "when first I came here, made suggestion that you yourself nourished hopes of punishing this man-this Vicomte de Bois-Vallée," and he pronounced the name clearly, as though to make sure he had learnt it aright-"would have done so had your health been stronger, and you more fit to cope with him."
"I-I would have done so then," poor Philip said, "had I been able to discover he had wronged her as well as me. I was mad, furious, at first. Poor swordsman as I am, I would have tried to find him out; have hurled myself against him; have, even though he had run me through and through, striven to kill him."
"So, so!" said Andrew, "you would have done that had you kept well and strong?"
"God help me! I fear I should."
CHAPTER III
ONE SUMMER NIGHT
It was so hot a July night in Paris that all who could be so were out of doors, even the commonest people bringing forth stools and chairs, and sitting on the side-paths outside their houses to get some breath of air that might blow down the streets and alleys; while, in the courtyards of the great nobles and rich merchants, the servants did the same thing. And, as they thus took the air, their thoughts all turned to memories of country lanes and fields, and of the green woods that belted the city on all sides, and of quiet inn-gardens with bowling-greens and archery grounds; turned also, perhaps, to the recollection of cool draughts of wine gurgling pleasantly from out the lips of flasks.
A hot night, even spent thus-a hotter in taverns and tripots and drinking shops where, as always, many of the Frenchmen in Paris passed their evenings imbibing Montrachet from long-necked glasses, or red Citron from big-bowled ones, or Frontignac from goblets. So hot that jackets were thrown open, and lace fal-lals untied, and even belts loosened for coolness.
In such a way, on this hot night, sat Andrew Vause in an inn off the Rue St. Honoré, known as "Le Point du Jour" – possibly because it was chiefly patronized from nightfall to dawn by the wildest of French gallants-his jacket open and his dress generally arranged to catch any whiff of air that might blow in from the open door. He was differently dressed now from the time when he arrived at his old home in Surrey-the jacket being of black velvet and the whole of his costume indicating that he was in mourning. For Philip had been in his grave some weeks, the great heat which came in the early June of that year having sapped from him the little vitality left, and Andrew, full of a set purpose which he had resolved on as he saw his brother's coffin lowered into the vault where so many other members of the family lay, was now in Paris bent on carrying that purpose out.
Before him on a table was a flask of wine; on the other side of the table, leaning his elbows on it, sat a Frenchman who every now and again filled his glass at the other's bidding, and then went on with the recital of some narrative to which Andrew listened attentively.
"He is," this man said, "in the garde du corps of Turenne, his business being always to be near the Marshal with others-to prevent his master from either being insulted or assaulted in any tumult. Naturally 'tis a light duty, Turenne being too popular just now for any such banalités to be perpetrated"; and the Frenchman lifted his glass to his lips and again drank-this time in a meditative manner, and as though thinking far more of something else than of the wine he was sucking down his throat. After which he continued:
"He is useful to Turenne now; doubly so, indeed. Monsieur understands that he is of Lorraine, from Remiremont. Consequently knows well the neighbourhood."
"Of Lorraine! And fighting for France! Why! all Lorrainers, with their Duke at their head, are with the Imperialists in spite of King Louis claiming their country as a province."
"Not all, Monsieur. Not all," the Court spy, for such he was, answered with a bow and a shrug, as though deprecating the necessity for contradicting Andrew. "Many of the noblesse go against the Duke and throw in their lot with France-she protecting them from Charles of Lorraine's anger. He is one of them and has been since '70, when the King claimed the province again."
Whereon he filled his glass once more.
"And where is Turenne now?" asked Andrew, playing with his own glass, but drinking nothing.
"The last news came from Sintzheim, where he had just beaten Caprara. He is somewhere, therefore, in that neighbourhood."
"And Sintzheim is on the east bank of the Rhine, if I remember aright."
"So, so! 'Twixt Philipsburg on the Rhine and Heilbronn on the Neckar."
"Ay! thereabouts. And you are sure this man, this Camille de Bois-Vallée, is there with his master?"
"Where else? That is his post. Unless-"
"Unless?"
"He is killed. That may be. They are fighting always during the summer. In the winter they go into quarters. Some returning to Paris who can get leave-and, then, 'tis as though forty thousand devils more than there are already here were let loose! Some stay there. The married ones mostly. He does, I think."
It was on the tip of Andrew's tongue to say, "he is married then?" but he refrained. This man might not know that-although he knew much of what took place in the higher circles in France. Instead, therefore, he contented himself by saying: "Why so? Do their wives join them?"
"Si! Si! They join them. And sometimes others-but no matter."
"Therefore you think he will be there-say next winter."
"Unless he is killed."
"Always, of course, unless he is killed. That is without saying."
"He is there now," the Frenchman said, filling his glass furtively and almost in a shamefaced manner at having drunk so much of what was in the bottle, "I know that. You bade me a week ago find out, discover, where he was. I have done it. You may rely on me." Then, with a slight simper and somewhat of hesitation in his voice, he said: "I have done my share of the work, monsieur."
"That
