th a low bow,--

"You have forgotten me, Count, and I don't wonder at it; so please you,
I am the person who once brought you a letter from France to Devereux
Court."

At this, I recognized the bearer of that epistle which had embroiled
me with the Abbe Montreuil. I was too glad of the meeting to show any
coolness in my reception of the gentleman, and to speak candidly, I
never saw a gentleman less troubled with _mauvaise honte_.

"Sir!" said he, lowering his voice to a whisper, "it is most fortunate
that I should thus have met you; I only came to town this morning, and
for the sole purpose of seeking you out. I am charged with a packet,
which I believe will be of the greatest importance to your interests.
But," he added, looking round, "the streets are no proper place for
my communication; _parbleu_, there are those about who hear whispers
through stone walls: suffer me to call upon you to-morrow."

"To-morrow! it is a day of great business with me, but I can possibly
spare you a few moments, if that will suffice; or, on the day after,
your own pleasure may be the sole limit of our interview."

"_Parbleu_, Monsieur, you are very obliging,--very; but I will tell you
in one word who I am and what is my business. My name is Marie Oswald: I
was born in France, and I am the half-brother of that Oswald who drew up
your uncle's will."

"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed; "is it possible that you know anything of
that affair?"

"Hush--yes, all! my poor brother is just dead; and, in a word, I am
charged with a packet given me by him on his death-bed. Now, will you
see me if I bring it to-morrow?"

"Certainly; can I not see you to-night?"

"To-night?--No, not well; _parbleu_! I want a little consideration as to
the reward due to me for my eminent services to your lordship. No: let
it be to-morrow."

"Well! at what hour? I fear it must be in the evening."

"Seven, _s'il vous plait_, Monsieur."

"Enough! be it so."

And Mr. Marie Oswald, who seemed, during the whole of this short
conference, to have been under some great apprehension of being seen or
overheard, bowed, and vanished in an instant, leaving my mind in a most
motley state of incoherent, unsatisfactory, yet sanguine conjecture.

CHAPTER VII.

THE EVENTS OF A SINGLE NIGHT.--MOMENTS MAKE THE HUES IN WHICH YEARS ARE
COLOURED.

MEN of the old age! what wonder that in the fondness of a dim faith,
and in the vague guesses which, from the frail ark of reason,