true that the two last that perished dined here before they were assassinated ?"

"If my father," replied Bibiane, "could give you but little information, how can you expect me to give you more, who have not left this room for nearly a month?"

M. de Lafeymas bit his lip.

"I must have some further conversation with this child," he continued, "but it must be alone. You, Master Gonin, and madame, your wife, can leave the room."

But Bibiane, terrified at the idea of being left alone with M. do Richelieu's raffiné, stretched out her hands to her father and mother, and wept. At this moment the door opened, and the young page, Juan de Sagrera, came in. Bibiane, her father and mother, could not repress an exclamation of joy.

"Since

"How is this, sir?" said Juan, to the chief of the raffinés. when have gentlemen had so little respect for youth and sickness, as to invade even the sick room? I and my friends, M. de Lafeymas-for I am not alone here-have heard below that you are in search of indications of foul play. You are in your duty and your right; but as to interrogating a sick child, I will not suffer it. Bibiane, sir, is my friend. Whosoever attacks her, attacks me. Either you leave this room, in which you ought never to have entered, at once, or you shall give me satisfaction on the spot."

"In the presence of such a guarantee as yours, monsieur le marquis," replied the chief of the raffinés, grimacing, "I shall not persist in my interrogation. You-one of his favourite pages-would not, I am sure, extend your protection over the worst enemies of the cardinal."

"And how would you find enemies to M. de Richelieu here?" retorted the young marquis. "A quiet country hostelry; honest people, whom I myself placed here."

Lafeymas bowed.

"One cannot always select the ways by which to arrive at the truth, monsieur le marquis, and I wished to spare no means. But if I have exceeded my duty, I apologise to you and to this young lady. I withdraw at once, thanking you, sir, for the lesson you have given. always something to gain in meeting you."

There is

To gain! Lafeymas little knew how truly he had spoken. Juan de Sagrera's opportune arrival at the hostelry had saved the life of himself and of his followers; for whilst Juan was there, it was utterly impossible to carry out the plan arranged for their destruction.

This was the third time that Juan had visited Bibiane since her illness; and this time, being on his way from Fontainebleau, he was accompanied by some friends who waited below. No sooner had the raffinés taken

their departure than he also bade farewell to his beloved, and continued his journey towards Paris. Juan was very melancholy, for he did not think that Bibiane was looking so well, and although he attributed it in part to the unpleasantness to which she had been subjected, still it made him anxious. Amongst his friends was one more intimate than others -one Pascal Siméonis, who aroused him from his reverie.

"Do you know," he said to the page, "I don't like the looks of your friend Master Gonin, or of his waiter either."

"What an idea!" responded the young man.

"A foolish one, perchance, but I cannot help thinking that you will one day repent the good you have done to that man." Juan turned pale." And, what is more, I should not be surprised," persevered Pascal, if Bibiane's illness was due to her horror of the crimes committed by her father."

"Oh, that is too good!" exclaimed Juan, recovering himself, "my Bibiane's father an assassin! Impossible! The idea is too horrible. But thanks, Pascal, I will not the less make inquiries. I will interrogate Bibiane myself. But enough for the day. She is not strong enough. She has already been subjected to one trial. It would be cruel to persevere. I will do it another time."

"As you like, monsieur le marquis," replied Pascal; "but the sooner you do it the better, were it only for Bibiane's sake."

One night, shortly after the events previously related, Juan de Sagrera and his friend Pascal Siméonis were cantering on the high road to Fontainebleau on their way to the hostelry of La Forcille.

As they were nearing the old mansion, Pascal asked:

" Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," said Juan. "Well, then, either this very day-or rather morning-early, Henri de Chalais is going to attempt, with the aid of a band of conspirators, enemies of M. de Richelieu, to carry off the cardinal from his house at Fleury."

"How did you learn that?" inquired Pascal.

"From one who was ready to sacrifice her life to give me the information, and all that remains now is to save Henri de Chalais. But here we are at the house; it is shut up, and yet the wretch cannot be asleep. Gonin! Gonin!" shouted the young man.

A window opened, and at that moment it struck two in the morning at the church of Ferroles.

"Who is it?" inquired Gonin.

"I, Juan de Sagrera," replied the page.

"You, my lord!" muttered the landlord.

"Yes, I come to tell you that I am aware of your infamous treachery. Your daughter has told me all."

'My daughter!"

"Yes, your daughter, whom you believe to be asleep in your horrible abode; but she is in my house in Paris, and, alas! she is dead!" "Dead !"

"Yes, dead!"

The mother of Bibiane had rushed to the window at the cry of agony that escaped from the conspirator. But Juan de Sagrera had put spurs to his horse, and before any further inquiries could be made he and his friend were already on their way to Fontainebleau.

"Was it not rather cruel on your part to break the news of his daughter's death so abruptly to Master Gonin?" Pascal ventured to remark when the horses had slackened their pace a little.

"It was to save his life," replied Juan. "It is in his house that the twelve Rochelois have been hid for more than a month. Enemies of the cardinal, it is those that have killed ten of M. de Lafeymas's raffinés. Jean Farina, their chief-a kind of pirate-is involved with the Duchess

of Chevreuse in a conspiracy, and they are at this very moment in ambuscade at Fleury, waiting for orders from Henri de Chalais when to break into the house. Bibiane told me all. She has known of the conspiracy for a month past, and it was that that made her ill. Seeing yesterday that the fatal moment had arrived, she hurried off to me on foot, to save the cardinal and to save Henri de Chalais and her father. She had just strength left to tell me all. I sent for a doctor; it was no use. She died saying, 'You will save your cousin, and, as a reward for what I have done for him, spare my father!' Poor dear Bibiane! how I loved her! I had in my agony forgotten all-the cardinal, Henri de Chalais, and the Rochelois. But when the safety of my benefactor and of my cousin came back to my memory, I tore myself from the body, I sought for you, and together we set out for Fontainebleau. But, on the way, I told the infamous Gonin, the father of my Bibiane, that he was known, and that his daughter was no more. It at least gives

him a chance to save his life."

It was half-past four when the travellers arrived at Fontainebleau. Trotting through the town, they reached the gates of the palace just as day broke. The gates were guarded by a company of Swiss and a company of the king's body guard. M. de Berteval, a friend of Juan's, was the officer on duty. Stepping up to the horsemen, he said:

"Monsieur le Marquis de Montglas and M. Pascal Siméonis, I have a very disagreeable duty to perform, but you are both to consider yourselves under arrest."

"Prisoners!" they both exclaimed at the same time," and when every moment was so precious!"

The Rochelois had been an hour in ambuscade in a little wood adjoining the cardinal's country-house of Fleury, when six horsemen rode up to the gates and rang the bell. These horsemen were De Chalais, the grand-prior of Vendôme (natural son of Henri IV.), Puylaureus, Rochefort, Luxueuil, and Moret, all gentlemen of title. Madame de Comballet, the cardinal's niece, received the gentlemen, and in answer to their inquiries for the cardinal, quietly informed them that he was not at home, but that he had gone to spend the night with the king in the palace of Fontainebleau.

Whilst the conversation was still going on, troops advanced from every direction and surrounded the conspirators, whilst another considerable body of men was to be seen making its way to the little wood. The gentlemen looked at one another. They all felt in a moment that they were betrayed-lost! All resistance was as vain as it was useless. M. de Lafeymas had, in fact, summoned those who were in ambuscade in the wood to surrender at the same time that the gentlemen were surrounded on the threshold of the cardinal's house. The little band of Rochelois stood forth, and upon a signal made by Jean Farina each lifted up his sword to Heaven, and then a sharp noise was heard, and the thirteen broken blades fell to the ground at one and the same instant of time.

The gentlemen were then led away to Fontainebleau, whilst the Rochelois were bound with cords and left in charge of M. de Lafeymas. 'Good-bye!" said M. de Moret to Madame de Comballet, who had remained upon the threshold; "your dear uncle is decidedly too clever for us, and he has won the game."

The Rochelois did not condescend to deny either their crimes or the objects which they had in view. M. de Lafeymas had pre-determined that they should all be hung at the scene of their crimes-at the hostelry of La Forcille. But the cardinal, aware of the enmity borne by the people of La Rochelle towards him, wished to make a show of magnanimity by sparing the life of their leader, Jean Farina. The latter repudiated the clemency of the cardinal, and wished to suffer with the others. But he was not permitted to do so, and even his band urged him to live, were it only to revenge their deaths.

One after the other each of the brave but misguided men embraced their chief for the last time. On arriving at the hostelry, Master Gonin, who was to make the thirteenth, was nowhere to be found. There was only Marcelline in the house; she was, indeed, its sole tenant, and the abrupt news of the death of Bibiane had deprived the poor woman of her reason. Lafeymas did not the less proceed with his lugubrious work. Three cords were fastened to each of the iron balconies that fronted the windows of the hostelry. They were four in number. In less than a

quarter of an hour twelve corpses hung from these ropes. Scarcely had the horrible ceremony, which made even the guards turn pale, been enacted, when a man rode up at full speed, coming from Paris. It was Master Gonin.

"You did not expect me!" he exclaimed, as he neared M. de Lafeymas, "but I am come to be tied up by the side of those gallant gentlemen! Do you think that I cared to live after I had lost my child? But I want to see my wife, and then I am at your service."

Not I!

The miserable wretch rushed into the house, little expecting that another terrible misfortune awaited him. Marcelline was huddled up in a

corner.

"I have seen her!" he exclaimed—“ I have given her a last kiss!" But the only reply he got was, "Walk in, ladies and gentlemen !— walk in! Master Gonin is about to begin! Only two sous!"

Her mind had gone, and she was once more on the Pont-Neuf. Master Gonin recoiled in horror. But Lafeymas was not the man to spare one already struck down by Heaven. A thirteenth rope was made fast, and Master Gonin was quickly led away. As he was going up the ladder his wife put her head out of the window, and cried out, "Only two sous, ladies and gentlemen!" There was not a bystander that could refrain from tears.

And this is how the hostelry of La Forcille came ever afterwards to be known as the "Hostelry of the Thirteen Hung Men." No one ventured to open the house again, its reputation was too bad. But the peasants related to one another how at midnight a crowd gathered together in that old mansion. Twelve Rochelois, ten raffinés slain by them, and Master Gonin helping them as well as he could. They drank and laughed, and then they fought, till all was again buried in silence-in the silence of death. For forty years not a peasant of La Ferrole passed that ill-fated house without tremblingly making the sign of the cross.

619

A LEGEND OF FARLEIGH CASTLE

Ir was the Lady Geraldine, who, held in dark restraint,
In Farleigh's castellated tower, thus made her sad complaint:
"Sir Walter's wife, a Hungerford, the lord of all this land,
And I am placed in durance vile, a slave at his command.
Why did I leave my native bowers, my free and gushing life,
To wear with shackles like a serf the vain name of a wife?
Why, when his first two ladies died, was I so rash and bold
To deem his love was wholly mine, so sweet and gently told—
Two passions that had faded fast could hardly bear a third.
Why did I list my willing heart? Ah, why so weakly stirred?
Now from this tower o'er pleasant fields I cast my aching eyes,
From sleepless vigil, sick-tossed heart, I see the sun arise;
At noon he blazes in my room, at eve, with sunset glow,
He toucheth all these bars with gold, then fadeth sad and slow.
All day I sit, as though entranced, in dark and deadly dream,
And catch at shadows as they pass, or weep the sunset's gleam;
All night I sob like child distressed, my tears the pillow wet,
For, ah! the darkness wears my soul, and sunlight lingereth yet.
At stated times Sir John comes in-my husband's chaplain he-
And brings his prisoner meat or drink, as fits his custodie.
Dark are his looks, and fierce his words, I tremble as I sup,
And something seems to whisper me, "There's poison in the cup."
Oh! I would fain escape this life, but I am young to go

So soon from this fair world of ours, that lives and blooms below!
Could I but give my body wings to follow on the track
Of my sick soul, O love! O life! how would I hold you back!
How would I dare you to return to this my cruel lord,

But free outside these prison walls we'd make our home abroad."

Thus wailed the Lady Geraldine in moaning voice of pain, 'Twas silence all within the tower until she spoke again.

"I mind me once, when I was young (ah, me, how long ago!) I listened to the wild bird's song, and heard the streamlets flow; I dreamt sweet dreams, as young girls will; I longed those dreams

to prove,

And as an answering prayer there came my own true knight and love.
Ah! blessed, glorious, golden time, when life was purest bliss,

And heaven itself could but fulfil the foretaste joy of this,
Why did there come a grief to me, a cloud to blot my sun?
Is life so weak it only sees life's happiness begun ?
Oh, bitter ban of poverty! what though my knight were brave,
The 'poortritte' held us both aloof, till war its summons gave.