an eye-witness, disguised, and in peril of his
life. The details, in his broken English, were
often grotesque, but they were pathetic too.
This time he had not returned alone. He had
brought with him a young girl whose father and
mother had faithfully adhered to the unfortunate
royal family, and had perished in October, only
a few days in advance of the queen. This girl
was the Mam'selle Elise, and the niece of
Madame Stéphanie and Madame Rose.

Mam'selle Elise was not more than seven or
eight years old when she came to Ash Grange.
She was a dark-haired, handsome child, very
imperious, wilful, and passionate, whose bursts
of fury Madame Stéphanie severely controlled
by imprisonment in the great cupboard of her
salon; so, at least, the tale went in the town,
where the little princess was often seen dancing
along with Monsieur Rigault, who adored her,
and where she was much noticed for her beauty,
her singularity, and tragical orphanhood. She
had no playfellows but her grief-aged kinswomen
and their servants, and the imperious,
wilful child grew up into an imperious, wilful
maiden, full of caprices and madcap vagaries.
At fifteen she was notoriously wild, unruly,
and fierce; and when her whims were
contradicted she would threaten to stab herself,
drown herself, poison herself—anything to be
avenged on her guardians. She was sent to a
convent in Warwickshire to receive education
and discipline; but, after the lapse of a year,
she came home to the Grange no milder than
she went. She must have been as much out of
her place in a convent as a hawk in a dovecot;
for restraint was intolerable to her, and she had
no religious vocation whatever.

From this period Mam'selle Elise assumed
to herself considerable freedom, perhaps licence
of conduct, and she and Madame Stéphanie
were openly at feud. The young lady detested
the poverty and narrowness of her life; the elder
abominated her niece's condescensions to gain a
little society. She had struck up an intimacy
with a family near the Grange, who were of no
rank and of no reputation. They had grown
rich on the troubles of the times, and the sons,
half-educated, dissolute, handsome young men,
were making haste to squander their fortunes
by aping the luxuries and extravagances of the
squirearchy. It was presently whispered in the
town that Mam'selle Elise had an intrigue with
the eldest son, and it came to the ears of
Monsieur Rigault that a girl who had lately been
admitted into the house to help Madame Bette,
acted as their go-between. This girl was Bridget
Johnes. That day, or the next, Bridget Johnes
received her discharge, and being quit of her
scruples with her service, she opened her mouth
and told astounding tales of the quarrels between
Madame Stéphanie and Mam'selle Elise; like
she-devils, she said they were—but she was
sorry for Mam'selle Elise too. Concerning
the alleged intrigue she was more reticent;
she denied, indeed, that there was any intrigue.

This exposure took place at the opening of
the year 1802, and about the same time died
Mr. March, by whose courtesy the exiles held
the Grange rent-free. His heir was his sister,
who was married to a Mr. Baxter, the father
and mother of the present owner. To secure
them against disturbance, Mr. March in his
will made them a gift of the Grange for such
time as they might be pleased to occupy it. If
they vacated it, the Baxters were to acquire
possession, but otherwise Madame Stéphanie
and Madame Rose were at liberty to retain it
for their joint and separate lives. The Peace of
Amiens opened the Continent in the spring, and
the Baxters, who were not rich, had great hopes
that the French ladies would hurry home, and
leave the Grange to them; but they made no
signs of stirring. They had lost all in France—
rank, honour, name, fortune, and kindred—and
were not likely to recover them under the
consulate of Napoleon Bonaparte, then
mounting to the pinnacle of power and glory.

One fine evening in May, Bridget Johnes, who
had gone to be dairymaid at the rectory, had
occasion to walk down the glebe pastures that
skirt the Grange garden, and divide it from the
river. A holly-hedge forms the boundary, which
is solid and lofty as a wall. Mam'selle Elise
had, to Bridget's knowledge, surmounted this
barrier many a time to meet her lover, and Bridget
had kept her counsel faithfully while she connived
at or assisted her evasions. But after
this evening she was less secret. She met
mam'selle walking by the river alone, and they
had some conversation. Mam'selle Elise exhibited
a ring set with green stones, which she
had accepted as a betrothal-ring from her lover,
who, she said, wished her to fly with him to
Scotland, where they could be married without
leave of her guardians.

On certain evenings subsequent to this
Bridget Johnes found opportunities of going
into the pastures, prompted by curiosity to
learn how the elopement scheme went on.
But she met Mam'selle Elise no more. Once
she saw the lover prowling about watchfully,
who told her he had not been able to get a
glimpse of his sweetheart for days. Neither
was surprised at this, for Madame Stéphanie
had means of keeping her unruly young
kinswoman in durance, which she used without
the smallest scruple. If she had seen the ring,
and if Mam'selle Elise had braved her with an
avowal of her design to escape from the Grange
into the arms of her plebeian lover, Bridget had
no doubt that she was expiating her iniquity in
close confinement—possibly in her own chamber,
or quite as possibly in the great closet of the
salon, to which narrow seclusion, with the aid
of Madame Bette, Madame Stéphanie had more
than once committed her, even since her return
from the convent.

Monsieur Rigault had never lost the distressed
countenance that he had brought back
after his last journey to Paris, but at this time
he looked more than ever wretched, more than
ever haggard and perplexed. He was silent
too. When he entered the shops he had no
answer to any bit of news from his friends. If