In the Day of Adversity. John Bloundelle-Burton

woman. Ah! mon Dieu, elles sont belles, ces Anglaises! An English woman. Well, well!"

      "Yes, an English woman. Daughter of a Protestant cavalier who left England when the Commonwealth was declared. He had done his best for the king, but with his death he could do no more. So he quitted his country forever."

      "Most interesting," exclaimed the bishop, "but your father, Monsieur St. Georges. Who was he? Of the St. Georges's family, perhaps, of Auvergne! Or another branch, of Dauphiné! A noble family is that of St. Georges!"

      "He was of the branch in Auvergne. A humble member, but still of it. I know no more."

      "No more?"

      "No."

      "Humph! Strange! Pardon me, monsieur, I would not ask a delicate question – but – but – did not the family recognise the marriage of Monsieur St. Georges?"

      "They did not recognise it for the simple reason that they were never told of it. It did not please my father to divulge the marriage to his family, so they were left in ignorance that it had ever taken place."

      "And was Monsieur St. Georges – your father – a soldier like yourself?"

      "He was a soldier like myself. And served against Condé."

      "Against Condé. Under Turenne, doubtless?" and once more he cast a sidelong glance at his visitor.

      "Yes. Under Turenne. They were, I have heard, more than commander and subordinate. They were friends."

      "A great friendship!" exclaimed the bishop. "A great friendship! To his influence you doubtless owe your commission, obtained, I think you said, in '74, the year before Turenne's death."

      "Doubtless. So my father said. He died in the same year as the marshal."

      "In battle, too, no doubt?" Then, seeing a look upon the other's face which seemed to express a desire for no more questioning – though, indeed, he bowed gravely at the question if his father had died in battle – monseigneur with a polite bow said he would ask him no more impertinent questions, and turned the conversation by exclaiming:

      "But you must be weary, monsieur. You would rest, I am sure. I will call Pierre to show you to your room. Your child will sleep better at the 'Ours' than you will do here, since my accommodation is not of the first order, owing to my being able to inhabit the house so little. But we have done our best. We have done our best."

      "I thank you," the soldier said, rising from his chair. "Now, monseigneur, let me pay my farewells to you at the same time I say 'Good-night.' I propose to ride to-morrow at daybreak, and if possible to reach Bar by night. Though much I doubt doing so; my horse is jaded already, and can scarce compass a league an hour. And 'tis more than twenty leagues from here, I take it."

      "Ay, 'tis. More like twenty-five. And you have, you know, a burden. You carry weight. There is the little child."

      "Yes, there is the child."

      "You guard it carefully, Monsieur St. Georges. By the way, you have not told me. Where is its mother, your wife?"

      Again the soldier answered as he had before answered to the watchman's wife – yet, he knew not why, he felt more repugnance in speaking of his dead wife to this strange bishop than he had when addressing either that simple woman or the landlady of the "Ours." But it had to be done – he could not make a secret of what was, in fact, no secret. So he answered, speaking rapidly, as though desirous of getting his answer over:

      "She is dead. Our existence together was short. We loved each other dearly, but it pleased God to take her from me. She died a year after our marriage, in giving birth to the babe."

      Phélypeaux bowed his head gravely, as though, perhaps, intending thereby to express sympathy with the other, and said, "It was sad, very sad." Then he continued:

      "And madame —pauvre dame!– was she, too, English, or of some French family?"

      "She was, monseigneur, a simple French girl. Of no family – such as you, monseigneur, would know of. A girl of the people, of the bourgeoisie. Yet I loved her; she became my wife, and now – now" – and he looked meditatively down into the ashes of the (by this time) charred and burnt-out logs – "I have no wife. That is all. Monseigneur, permit me to wish you good-night."

      The bishop rang the bell, and while they waited for Pierre to come, he said:

      "You asked me, Monsieur St. Georges, this evening, why his Most Christian Majesty should have thought fit through Louvois to direct you to stay at my house in Dijon? I shall not see you to-morrow ere you depart; let me therefore be frank. The king – and Louvois also – are in correspondence with me on a political matter, which must not even be trusted to the post, nor to courier, nor messenger. Nay, we do not even write what we have to say, but, instead, correspond by words and signs. Now, you are a trusty man – you will go far – already I see your captaincy of a troop looming up before you. Therefore I will send by you one word and one alone. You cannot forget it, for it is perhaps the simplest in our or any language. You will convey it?"

      "I am the king's servant. What is the word, monseigneur?"

      "The word 'Yes.'"

      "The word 'Yes,'" the chevau-léger repeated. "The word 'Yes.' That is it? No more?"

      "Nothing more. Simply the word 'Yes.' Yet stay, remember my instructions. The word is sent as much to Louvois as to the king. It is a common message to both. And there is one other thing. The Marquise de Roquemaure is also concerned in this matter; she will without doubt ask you what the word is I have sent. And, monsieur, there is no need of secrecy with her. You may frankly tell her."

      Again with military precision the other made sure of his instructions.

      "I may say that the word you send is 'Yes'?"

      "Precisely."

      "I shall remember."

      And now, Pierre coming in, the bishop bade him farewell and good-night.

      "The bed, I trust," he said, addressing the servant, "is as comfortable as may be under the circumstances. Also properly aired. For Monsieur St. Georges must sleep well to-night. He rides to Troyes to-morrow or as far upon his road as he can get. He must sleep well."

      "So! he rides to Troyes to-morrow," repeated the domestic, surlily – "to Troyes, eh? And at what hour does Monsieur St. Georges set forth? I must know, so that he shall be called."

      "At daybreak," St. Georges replied.

      The man led him after this up some great stairs, evidently the principal ones of the mansion, and past what were the chief salons, holding the lantern he carried above his head all the way and casting thereby weird shadows on to walls and corners. Then up another flight they went – their feet echoing now on the bare, uncarpeted stairs, and so along a corridor until at the end the man opened a door and ushered the guest into a moderately sized room very sparsely furnished in all except the bed, which was large enough for three men to have slept in side by side. Next, lighting a taper which looked as though it might burn ten minutes but not longer, he gruffly bade St. Georges "Good-night," and, saying that he should be called before daybreak, he strode away, while the other heard his heavy footfall gradually grow fainter and fainter until, at last, there was no further sound in the house except the banging of a door now and again.

      "Nom d'un chien!" exclaimed the soldier, as he unbuckled his spurs, drew off his long riding boots, and, unsheathing his sword, laid it along the side of the bed nearest the wall, "this is a pleasant hole for a man to find himself in." And throwing himself on the bed, and discovering that, as he drew the counterpane up about his shoulders, it was so short that it did not reach below his knees, he wrapped up the lower part of his body in the great cloak in which he had carried the child all day, and so, shivering with cold, went at last to sleep.

      Down below, while this had been going on, Pierre had rejoined his master, and, standing before him, was answering several questions put with great rapidity.

      "Your horse is sound?" the bishop asked, as now he partook of a glass out of the second bottle.

      "Ay, it is sound," replied the other. "It has