here were now assembled about a dozen persons, and the Abbe was kept in
countenance by two others of his cloth. There were several ladies; one
of whom was young and plain and seemed to watch Albert de Chantonnay
with a timid awe. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, seated next to the Comtesse
de Chantonnay, was the only lady who made any attempt at gay apparel,
and thus stood rather conspicuous among her companions clad in sober and
somewhat rusty black. All over the west of France such meetings of
the penniless Royalists were being held at this time, not, it has been
averred, without the knowledge of the Prince President, who has been
credited with the courage to treat the matter with contempt. About no
monarch, living or dead, however, have so many lies been written, by
friend or foe, with good or ill intent, as about him, who subsequently
carried out the astounding feat of climbing to the throne of France as
Napoleon III. And it seems certain that he has been given credit for
knowing much of which he must have been ignorant to an extent hardly
credible, even now, in face of subsequent events.

The Comtesse de Chantonnay was still tossing her head, at intervals, at
the recollection of the Vicomtesse de Rathe's indigestion. This was
only typical of the feelings that divided every camp in France at this
time--at any time, indeed, since the days of Charlemagne--for the French
must always quarrel among themselves until they are actually on the
brink of national catastrophe. And even when they are fallen into that
pit they will quarrel at the bottom, and bespatter each other with the
mud that is there.

"Are we all here?" asked Albert de Chantonnay, standing in an effective
attitude at the end of the table, with his hand on the back of his
chair. He counted the number of his fellow-conspirators, and then sat
down, drawing forward a candelabra.

"You have been summoned in haste," he said, "by the request of the
Marquis de Gemosac to listen to the perusal of a letter of importance.
It may be of the utmost importance--to us--to France--to all the world."

He drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid a breathless
silence. His listeners noted the care with which he attended to gesture
and demeanour, and accounted it to him for righteousness; for they were
French. An English audience would have thought him insincere, and they
would have been wrong.

"The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in England. I have
nev