ss a request I made some half an
hour ago: tell me this same story of yours. I long to learn something of
the little boy, where I feel such affection for the man."

The look of kindness and the tone of soothing interest that accompanied
these words I could not resist; so, drawing my chair close towards
him, I began the narrative of my life. He listened with the most
eager attention to my account of the political condition of Ireland;
questioned me closely as to my connection with the intrigues of the
period; and when I mentioned the name of Charles de Meudon, a livid
paleness overspread his features as he asked, in a low, hollow tone, if
I were with him when he died?

"Yes," replied I, "by his bedside."

"Did he ever speak to you of me? Did he ever tell you much of his early
life when in Provence?"

"Yes, yes; he spoke often of those happy days in the old chateau, where
his sister, on whom he doted to distraction, was his companion. Hers was
a sad story, too. Strange, is it not,--I have never heard of her since I
came to France?"

A long pause followed these words, and the abbe, leaned his head upon
his hand, and seemed to be lost in thought.

"She was in love with her cousin," I continued, "and Charles, unhappily,
refused his consent. Unhappily, I say; for he wept over his conduct on
his deathbed."

"Did he?" cried the abbe, with a start, while his eye flashed fire, and
his nostrils swelled and dilated like a chafed horse. "Did he do this?"

"Yes, bitterly he repented it; and although he never confessed it, I
could see that he had been deceived by others, and turned from his own
high-souled purpose, respecting his sister. I wonder what became of
Claude,--he entered the Church."

"Ay, and lies there now," replied the abbe, sternly.

"Poor fellow! is he dead, too? and so young."

"Yes; he contrived to entangle himself in some Jacobite plot."

"Why, he was a Royalist."

"So he was. It might have been another conspiracy, then,--some _Chouan_
intrigue. Whatever it was, the Government heard of it. He was arrested
at the door of his own _presbyiere_; the grenadiers were drawn up in his
own garden; and he was tried, condemned, and shot in less than an hour.
The officer of the company ate the dinner that was preparing for him."

"What a destiny! And Marie de Meudon?"

"Hush! the name is proscribed. The De Meudons professed strong Royalist
opinions, and Bonaparte would not permit her bearing her family name.
S