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the notice of the reader, considerable command over his emotions 'and faculties, by constant intercourse with the leaders of the Fronde, and by participating so often in their councils, was not so much disconcerted by this attack as he would have been in an earlier stage of his brief career. Without trusting himself with any premature expression of tenderness, he solicited that she would be seated, as he had much to say, if she would afford him a patient hearing. She cast on him a half look of surprise, and seated herself on a chair close at hand, intimating by a slight gesture that she would listen.

He spoke of his long course of suffering since the parting on the morn of Condé's arrest, when the flattering reception afforded by his Royal Highness, the restoration to favour, and the commission entrusted to his care by the imprisoned Prince, so wrought upon his feelings, that he felt extreme anger at Isoline for persuading him to desert his former patron. This anger, and consequent estrangement, proved, he said the cause of all his subsequent misery; for when returning affection wound itself round his heart, and he sought for her, the search was in vain; there was no vestige or trace of her movements to be found in the besieged city; no intelligence of her being at St. Cloud with the court, as he questioned every prisoner brought into the city, but without avail; and when, at length, he found means to despatch an envoy, he learned, with grief and remorse, that she had taken the veil at Avignon, having procured a disdispensation to obviate the necessity of the noviciate term. Herself lost, his own happiness a wreck, he had been unwillingly drawn into visiting a certain family, where the attentions he constantly received rendered his life less irksome, but from which he had lately fled in dismay, when fully aware to what such an intimacy would lead; resolving to dedicate himself to the task of seeking out Isoline, even though a cloistered nun, and praying for her peace and forgiveness. Such, he said, was his history, in which he read his own condemnation. But though so culpable, he prayed her to reflect, ere she turned aside from his penitent steps, or threw away a heart which still loved, which clung more fondly than ever to early hopes, which had wandered till, overcome by remorse, it had returned, even though but to mourn over its own ruin.

She was silent; with eyes averted, and fixed on the ground, she seemed irresolute, afraid to trust herself to speak, or to encounter the ardent gaze of St. Maur. He took courage from her silence, approached the chair where she was seated, knelt at her feet, and taking a hand which was not withdrawn, but which lay passively

in his own, besought her to grant him one look, one word of hope, that he might not wholly despair. He was now, he said, about to engage in an adventure of great peril, but of equal honour; he might never see her more; the present hour, in which he stood soliciting some little token of relenting, might be the last in which she would behold him. If she would but speak, bid him prosper through danger, or look on him but for a moment as her eye once beamed on his footsteps, it would be a talisman against peril; would console, encourage, his drooping spirits; cheer him in death on the field of battle, or on the scaffold, or be the charm inspiriting him to brave every stroke of adverse fortune,

She raised her eyes, looking at him attentively, whilst saying, "How can I believe these the sentiments of one who left me unheeded, perhaps to perish, whilst the palace was the prey of the market-places?"

"How, indeed, can Isoline believe it!" exclaimed the youth mournfully. "St. Maur himself can scarcely credit his own memory. But if Isoline would only blot it from recollection, it would light up in the heart of her adorer an undying flame, which would end but with life."

"And Louise de Broussel," said du Plessis, turning upon him a glance with somewhat of her former archness-" who will be the consoler of that poor maiden ?"

St. Maur was not so much disconcerted by the allusion as when made by the Abbess; it then fell unexpected, creating fear and dismay; he now stood better prepared to abide the shock. Reflection on his intercouse with Louise had convinced him, that however much the family might regret his secession from their circle, the maiden herself had entertained nought beyond a sisterly regard for her deliverer. He narrated to du Plessis the circumstances which attended his introduction to the President. He had no fear, he said in conclusion, for the happiness of Louise, by his absence from the Rue St. Antoine.

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Well, there is some hope of her happiness," said Isoline, “since she proves insensible to the allurements of the preux chevalier St.

Maur."

"And there will be some hope for him, if Madame du Plessis prove not insensible to compassion," remarked the youth watching every movement, striving to elicit a ray of hope in every change of voice or jesture.

Though so young, the fair du Plessis had gained more experience

than usually fell to ladies of her age. The ever-changing fortunes of the circle which surrounded Anne of Austria, the intrigues by which station and influence were maintained, had laid open to her view much of the weakness and vanity of mankind. She herself possessed a clear, firm, and unyielding mind, which had benefitted by the harsh discipline it had suffered. Her penitent lover knew and appreciated these qualities; and whilst on the one hand, he was filled with alarm at the idea of her remaining firm in the rejection of his suit, he was convinced he should not regain her affection by an extravagant demonstration of passion, which might have been more successful with an inexperienced maiden. He thought she had shown some slight signs of relenting, while he was speaking of the perilous adventure he was bound on; he therefore again led her to the consideration of this subject, as eloquently as he was able, petitioning for some mark of favour to carry on his journey. "And what may be the nature of this strange peril?" asked Isoline, "since I am no longer at liberty, after the recital of your history, to suppose it proceeding from a fiery brother-in-law, burning to avenge a sister's quarrel ?”

"I may yet have Monsieur du Tremblay on my hands," replied St. Maur, attempting a smile; “but the journey I am bound on is of higher import than my own poor concerns. I know not when, or how I shall proceed; I shall gain renown, or lose an unworthy. life."

A sudden thought seemed to strike Isoline; she arose from her chair hastily, and bidding St. Maur arise, for he was still kneeling—

"I know your mission; it is not an unworthy one; to say only that St. Maur was engaged beyond the walls of Paris, would be to declare it. Nay, look not so alarmed; I will not betray the secret, even to the lady-superior.”

She paused, hesitating, doubtful, afraid, as it seemed, of giving utterance to her thoughts; but at length continued,

"Let us make a contract of peace, Henri; I know what you are pledged to it can be no other than to liberate his Royal Highness. I am now quite severed from the court; have no inclination longer to withstand the malice of the Cardinal, and her Majesty proves but a feeble safe-guard against his treachery. I care not whether the Prince be free or not, for I still love the Queen. But return to Paris with your idol, and you shall not complain of my cruelty; it is the price I set on my forgiveness! Farewell!"

She flung to him a narrow scarf, and retreated hastily from the

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pavilion. He attempted to detain her; but she broke from his grasp, and forbidding him to follow, was soon lost to sight.

Kissing, again and again, the token of her regard, he folded it in his bosom, and slowly retraced his path through the garden. In the conventual parlour was seated the superior, poring over her huge, clasped volume. He was approaching to thank her for the consideration she had bestowed on his affairs, when, in great alarm, she pointed to a distant seat. He still continued to approach; she arose, clasping the large volume in her hands, as though intending it as a weapon of defence, and begged him on no account to come a step nearer; that he was a dangerous man to the peace either of convents or families. He, smiling, promised compliance, on condition that she would answer his questions, which was agreed to. He wished to know from the Superior the motives of Madame du Plessis in retiring to the Val-de-Grace; also the origin of the report of her having taken the veil at Avignon.

The Abbess replied, that there was but little to add to what he was now most likely in possession of. When the Palais Royal was assaulted, Isoline escaped in great distress to her hôtel in the Place Royale, from whence, fearing farther danger, and distracted at the absence of St. Maur, she repaired for safety to the Val-deGrace. In this seclusion, she had learned that he had joined the Frondeurs, taken up his abode at the Coadjutor's palace, and was altogether employed in the affairs of the faction, taking no care to make himself acquainted with her retreat, and thus confirming the opinion that she had formed on his not appearing to her rescue at the palace; that either of his own deliberate free will, or through the persuasions of others, he had forsaken her for ever. Subsequent events, which the Superior said she need not again allude to, only tended to strengthen this view of his intentions; and poor Isoline, though despairing of her lover, and inconsolable at his neglect, had yet sufficient firmness to resist the entreaties of the Abbess, who wished, in pity to her friend's state of mind, to make known to the Secretary the secret of her abode. She had resisted this step, alleging that if his affections were not evanescent, he would seek her; and if they were, it was well, although to her cost and sorrow, that he should continue estranged. To try him still farther, du Plessis, through the agency of the Superior, had caused it to be circulated at St. Cloud, that she had taken the veil at Avignon, doubting not that the intelligence would speedily reach Paris. To her grief and agony, she found that the only fruits of this policy was, that his

connexion with the family of de Broussel daily grew more close, destroying the faint vestiges of hope which yet clung to her heart. Still du Plessis was firm in her intention of leaving him to his own free course; and was only aroused from the depth of despair by his unexpected and startling visit to the Val-de-Grace.

The Abbess admitted that she could scarcely contain her joy; not of course from any regard to such an unworthy cavalier as St. Maur (though she now averred that she had slightly changed her opinion on his conduct) but through affection for her fair charge, whose happiness was compromised by his desertion. She was glad, she said, that he had had his share of suffering; and moreover, was rejoiced to hear what she had just been informed by the lady herself, that she had held out the myrtle and the olive-branch to the penitent wanderer.

St. Maur, deeply impressed with the narration, arose to take leave; and forgetful of her prohibition, he was again advancing, when she held up her hand, declaring that if he transgressed, she would undo all that had been done. Such another scene as that which, to her horror, she had witnessed in this parlour, would cause a scandal, she said, that would reach as far as Rome.

Afraid of trusting himself in the presence of so close an ally of her Majesty as the Abbess, with any expressions respecting his journey, lest its purport might transpire, he contented himself with thanking the superior at the proscribed distance, and retired from the convent.

Now it was time, he exclaimed, as he bounded over the roughly paved streets of the capital, to seek de Retz, and announce his readiness for the enterprise. To rescue the Prince; to win Isoline ; these were deeds worthy of his name. Rare trophies of love and honour were to be won, and he braced up his thoughts to the high endeavour.

Jules was delighted with the changed conduct of his master, who seemed not the same being. Affairs in Paris were soon arranged; St. Maur wrote to du Tremblay, stating that business of great importance to the welfare of the Fronde required his departure on the instant to the south, and begging him to tender his adienx to the de Broussel family. Elsewhere, at the instigation of the Coadjutor," who was desirous of blinding the Parisians to the real destination of his Secretary, the same report was set afloat; the impression intended to be conveyed was, that he had gone with instructions to Beaufort.

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