Traitor and True. John Bloundelle-Burton

of Paris. Yet letters now-and long ago-known to have been written by those whose names are scrawled plainly across them in a far more recent hand than those of the original writers; names such as De Longueville, Saint Ibal, Franquetot-Barberousse, De Fiesque and many others illustrious for centuries in the North-West.

      "I will speak with you later. To-night," De Beaurepaire said, even as Fleur de Mai and his companions still conversed and told each other that, with such men as these at their backs and with, towering over all, the wealth and power of Spain-though they forgot that Spain could scarcely be still powerful when ruled over by its baby King, Charles, who was later to become an idiot in mind and an invalid in body-they could not fail in their great attempt.

      And so the talk-the discussions of the future arrangements, of how Van den Enden was to correspond with De Beaurepaire by first sending his news in cypher to Basle, whence it would be re-written and sent to him, while other re-written copies would be sent to Rouen-went on until, at last, the meeting drew near to its end.

      "And you, Emérance," La Truaumont said, as now the men were resuming their swords and preparing to depart from the Hôtel des Muses, "do you know what part you have next to play? There are no more hesitating Norman nobles or gentlemen left in Paris for you to watch; they have all returned to their homes, being persuaded that the attempt is as good as made and carried through triumphantly. Likewise, you can do nought in Normandy yourself."

      "Somewhere I can do something."

      "Doubtless," the man said, looking down on her with a glance that might well have been taken for one of pity. "And it may be-we will hope so-under happier, more cheerful circumstances than this," now looking round the room they were in with a glance that might have been considered as embracing the whole of Van den Enden's delectable abode. "Your life," he went on, "has never been a happy one; your circumstances here, in Paris, are of the worst. They may now improve."

      "What is to be done with me?" the unfortunate woman asked listlessly. "Or for me? I have no hopes. Or only one-which will never be realised. My greatest hope," she almost whispered to herself, "is that at last I may lose all hope."

      "Be cheered," La Truaumont said, the roughness of the old soldier of fortune-part bravo, part hero, part swashbuckler-the usual ingredients of most soldiers of fortune! – smoothed out of his features so that, for the moment, he presented the appearance of a tender father talking to an unhappy child: "Be cheered. If that which we hope for and, hoping, greatly dare to attempt, should succeed, you will, you shall, rise as we rise. Whatever you can wish for, aspire to, he 'Monsieur Louis'-le Dédaigneux as he is sometimes called, will see that you attain."

      "It is impossible," the girl whispered. "Impossible. What I wish for he cannot give, not possessing it himself."

      "Be not so sure. He is young, passionate, and, though many a silken thread has held him lightly for a time-"

      "I have no silken thread wherewith to bind him," Emérance said, her eyes cast down, her breast heaving painfully. "Nor do I desire any other woman's-women's-"

      "You do not understand, Emérance," La Truaumont said very gently. "Much as trouble and sorrow have taught you, you have not yet learnt all the secrets of a man's heart. A silken thread!" he went on, turning his back still more on the others so that, while they could not hear his words, neither should they see the movement of his lips, which movement, on occasions, will sometimes tell as much as words themselves. "A silken thread! What species of cord, of thong is that to hold a strong, reckless man? A thing befitting the place where it is most often found-a lady's boudoir, her bower, the seat in a tower window; a gilded chamber where carpets from Smyrna, skins, rugs, make all soft to the feet; the plaything of a rêveuse, a love-lorn dame."

      "Well?" Emérance whispered, lifting her eyes to the other. "Well?"

      "But there are other cords," La Truaumont went on. "The heart-strings of women to whom dalliance is unknown: women who will starve, intrigue, follow, dare all for him they love: who will bravely bear the cords, the threads that make them regard the block, the gibbet, as a sweeter thing than bowers and tapestry and silken hangings-so long as block or gibbet are risked with him they love."

      "Ah!" the woman gasped in an indrawn breath.

      "What does he want now with women in their great saloons, their oratories, their boudoirs? Is he not risking his life upon one cast; does he not therefore want women as well as men of action to help him, women who will keep steady before their eyes, even as he keeps, as all of us keep before our eyes, the diadem of France, the throne of France-France itself, on one side? As also he keeps, and we keep before our eyes, the scaffold outside the Bastille, the Wheel at the Cross Roads, the Gibbet-on the other side? And for such a woman will there be no reward, no acknowledgment?"

      "Alas!" the unhappy creature murmured. "He is De Beaurepaire. I am-what?"

      "A sorely tried, a deeply injured woman, a lady. One evilly, wickedly, entreated by the land she now hopes to aid. One who loves De Beaurepaire," he added softly.

      "Heaven knows how much," the other whispered. "That only!"

      "To-night the Prince will speak with you," La Truaumont continued. "To-night he will show to you the absolute faith and belief he will put in your loyalty to him and his cause, which is yours and mine and that of all Normans. Emérance, to-night he will confide in you a great task; he will put himself, his life, his honour, the honour of his house in your hands; he will place in your hands the chance of sending him to that wheel, that gibbet I spoke of but now. Does a man trust any woman with his honour and his life unless he knows that they are so safe in her hands, that they are so bound up with her own life and honour, that she needs must guard them safely?"

      "Briefly," the woman said, her eyes raised for a moment to those of La Truaumont, "he knows I love him. Alas! the shame that any man should know I have given him my love unasked and unrequited."

      "How can he fail to know? Yes, he does know. But you, Emérance, do you not know something on your part of how love and, above all, fidelity, begets love in return?"

* * * * *

      The three men, La Truaumont, Fleur de Mai and Boisfleury had gone, they having taken the precaution to separate and make their way by different routes towards the better part of the city. Van den Enden and De Beaurepaire were in another room concluding their last arrangements for communicating with each other when the former should have reached Brussels. And Emérance leant out of the window of the room in which the meeting had been held and inhaled such air as was to be obtained from the stuffy street that was little better than an alley.

      Yet it was not only for the sake of inhaling the air of the warm summer night that she leant over the sill while idly toying with a flower that grew, or half-grew and half-withered away, in an imitation Nevers flowerpot, but also for the sake of gaining time to collect and, afterwards, arrange her thoughts.

      For she knew that, if La Truaumont's words meant anything at all, to-night would be fateful to her. She knew that, ere the bell of Saint Eustache, which had but a moment or so ago struck ten, should strike another hour, De Beaurepaire would have confided to her some task which, while it raised her from the almost degraded position of a spy-from the hateful task of watching Norman gentlemen and noblemen in Paris to discover if there was any defection on their part from that which they were deeply sworn to assist in-would not only put his life in her hands, but also jeopardise her own.

      Nevertheless-as still she trifled with the flower while meditating deeply-not one of these three things, her own advancement to a position of trust and importance, or the power over De Beaurepaire's life and honour which that position would put in her hands, or-and this was, or would have been with many women, the greatest of all-the deadly peril in which she herself must stand henceforth, weighed with her in comparison with a fourth. In comparison with the fact that, henceforth, no matter whether the Great Attempt succeeded or failed-as it would most probably do-she and De Beaurepaire must for ever be associated together. For, if it failed, there could be but one fate for them to share together: if it, by any chance, succeeded, some little part of the success must fall to her share.

      That, that only, was all she desired while knowing well there could be nothing more. She had herself uttered the words to La Truaumont that told all. The man she loved was De Beaurepaire, and he was