arechal, conducted by his valet,
retired to the northern tower near the gateway, and opposite the river.
The heat was extreme; he opened the window, and, enveloping himself
in his great silk robe, placed a heavy candlestick upon the table and
desired to be left alone. His window looked out upon the plain, which
the moon, in her first quarter, indistinctly lighted; the sky was
charged with thick clouds, and all things disposed the mind to
melancholy. Although Bassompierre had nothing of the dreamer in his
character, the tone which the conversation had taken at dinner returned
to his memory, and he reconsidered his life, the sad changes which the
new reign had wrought in it, a reign which seemed to have breathed
upon him a wind of misfortune--the death of a cherished sister; the
irregularities of the heir of his name; the loss of his lands and of
his favor; the recent fate of his friend, the Marechal d'Effiat,
whose chambers he now occupied. All these thoughts drew from him an
involuntary sigh, and he went to the window to breathe.

At that moment he fancied he heard the tramp of a troop of horse at the
side of the wood; but the wind rising made him think that he had been
mistaken, and, as the noise suddenly ceased, he forgot it. He still
watched for some time all the lights of the chateau, which were
successively extinguished, after winding among the windows of the
staircases and rambling about the courtyards and the stables. Then,
leaning back in his great tapestried armchair, his elbow resting on the
table, he abandoned himself to his reflections. After a while, drawing
from his breast a medallion which hung concealed, suspended by a black
ribbon, he said:

"Come, my good old master, talk with me as you have so often talked;
come, great King, forget your court for the smile of a true friend;
come, great man, consult me concerning ambitious Austria; come,
inconstant chevalier, speak to me of the lightness of thy love, and of
the fidelity of thine inconstancy; come, heroic soldier, complain to me
again that I obscure you in combat. Ah, had I only done it in Paris!
Had I only received thy wound? With thy blood the world has lost the
benefits of thine interrupted reign--"

The tears of the Marechal obscured the glass that covered the large
medallion, and he was effacing them with respectful kisses, when, his
door being roughly opened, he quickly drew his sword.

"Who goes there?" he cried, in his surprise, which was mu