ce of my
crude opinions--his generous admissions regarding his adversaries--and,
above all, his ardent devotion to France, whatever the hand that swayed
her destinies; and then the chivalrous boldness of his character,
blended with an almost girlish gentleness-how princely were such traits!

From these thoughts I wandered on to others about his arrest and
capture, from which, however, I could not believe any serious issue was
to come. Bonaparte is too noble-minded not to feel the value of such
a life as this. Men like the prince can be more heavily fettered by
generous treatment than by all the chains that ever bound a felon. But
what will be done with him? what with his followers? and lastly, not at
all the pleasantest consideration, what is to come of Maurice Tiernay,
who, to say the least, has been found in very suspicious company, and
without a shadow of an explanation to account for it? This last thought
just occurred to me as we crossed over the long bridge of boats, and
entered Strasbourg.

CHAPTER XLI. AN 'ORDINARY' ACQUAINTANCE

The Duc d'Enghien and his aide-de-camp were forwarded with the utmost
speed to Paris; the remainder of us were imprisoned at Strasbourg. What
became of my companions I know not; but I was sent on, along with
a number of others, about a month later, to Nancy, to be tried by
a military commission. I may mention it here as a singular fact
illustrating the secrecy of the period, that it was not till long after
this time I learned the terrible fate of the poor Prince de Conde. Had I
known it, it is more than probable that I should have utterly despaired
of my own safety. The dreadful story of Vincennes--the mock trial, and
the midnight execution, are all too well known to my readers; nor is it
necessary I should refer to an event on which I myself can throw no new
light.

That the sentence was determined on before his arrest--and that the
grave was dug while the victim was still sleeping the last slumber
before 'the sleep that knows not waking'--the evidences are strong and
undeniable. But an anecdote which circulated at the time, and which,
so far as I know, has never appeared in print, would seem to show that
there was complicity, at least, in the crime, and that the secret was
not confined to the First Consul's breast.

On that fatal night of the 20th March, Talleyrand was seated at a
card-table at Caulaincourt's house at Paris. The party was about to rise
from play, when sudd