of the death of the Marechal, whose last sighs he had heard at Luzzelstein.  He was one of those faithful servants who are become too rare in France; who suffer with the misfortunes of the family, and rejoice with their joys; who approve of early marriages, that they may have young masters to educate; who scold the children and often the fathers; who risk death for them; who serve without wages in revolutions; who toil for their support; and who in prosperous times follow them everywhere, or exclaim at their return, “Behold our vines!” He had a severe and remarkable face, a coppery complexion, and silver-gray hair, in which, however, some few locks, black as his heavy eyebrows, made him appear harsh at first; but a gentle countenance softened this first impression.  At present his voice was loud.  He busied himself much that day in hastening the dinner, and ordered about all the servants, who were in mourning like himself.

“Come,” said he, “make haste to serve the dinner, while Germain, Louis, and Etienne saddle their horses; Monsieur Henri and I must be far away by eight o’clock this evening.  And you, gentlemen, Italians, have you warned your young Princess?  I wager that she is gone to read with her ladies at the end of the park, or on the banks of the lake.  She always comes in after the first course, and makes every one rise from the table.”

“Ah, my good Grandchamp,” said in a low voice a young maid servant who was passing, “do not speak of the Duchess; she is very sorrowful, and I believe that she will remain in her apartment.  Santa Maria! what a shame to travel to-day! to depart on a Friday, the thirteenth of the month, and the day of Saint Gervais and of Saint-Protais—­the day of two martyrs!  I have been telling my beads all the morning for Monsieur de Cinq-Mars; and I could not help thinking of these things.  And my mistress thinks of them too, although she is a great lady; so you need not laugh!”

With these words the young Italian glided like a bird across the large dining-room, and disappeared down a corridor, startled at seeing the great doors of the salon opened.

Grandchamp had hardly heard what she had said, and seemed to have been occupied only with the preparations for dinner; he fulfilled the important duties of major-domo, and cast severe looks at the domestics to see whether they were all at their posts, placing himself behind the chair of the eldest son of the house.  Then all the inhabitants of the mansion entered the salon.  Eleven persons seated themselves at table.  The Marechale came in last, giving her arm to a handsome old man, magnificently dressed, whom she placed upon her left hand.  She seated herself in a large gilded arm-chair at the middle of one side of the table, which was oblong in form.  Another seat, rather more ornamented, was at her right, but it remained empty.  The young Marquis d’Effiat, seated in front of his mother, was to assist her in doing the honors of the table.  He was not more than