achieved in the end,* though in January, 1754
—one year and eight months after the outrage at
St.Martin's-lane—our ambassador at the court of
Versailles, General the Earl of Albermarle,
demanded that both the Marquis and his infamous
trepanner, Alexander Blasdale, at that time in
Paris, should be delivered up and sent back to
London. His request was never complied with,
and for fourteen years the luckless Marquis was
allowed to languish in the Bastille.

* " We are told that a foreign nobleman is
already in custody of a messenger for this offence,
and no person is permitted to have access to him,
neither is he allowed the use of pen, ink, or paper."
—Gentleman's Magazine, 1752. Very probably
this "foreign nobleman" was the Baron Dages de
Souchard.

He and his story were soon forgotten, and
nothing more was heard of him, until some of the
London papers of July 14, 1764, contained the
following paragraph: "The Marquis de Fratteaux,
that French gentleman who was some years
ago forcibly carried off from England to France
and confined in the Bastille, is now at liberty on
his estate at Fratteaux; for when his brother, M.
Bertin de Bourdeille, was made Intendant of
Lyons, he obtained his liberty, on giving his word
of honour to remain on his estate at Fratteaux,
and never to go above six miles from it without
leave from his father, with whom he had been
at great variance, which was the occasion of his
leaving France. Two months after his arrival
at Fratteaux his father went to see him, and he
had permission to return the visit at Bourdeille.
He has kept his word of honour strictly, and
lives at present in cordiality with the whole
family."

Broken in health and spirit by all he had
undergone, this unfortunate victim of a family
feud and an unnatural hatred, died soon
afterwards, and thus the wishes of his father were
accomplished.

HOWARD'S SON.

A STORY OF THREE DAYS.

IN SEVEN CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER IV. THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE.

THE next morning, the faithful Irish Andy
came familiarly into the breakfast-room, with
the most perfect composure, and told the
company that "the masther" was not "himself at
all, "and that he, Andy, had thought it better
to keep him in bed. He had now come for a
"sup" of weak tea, and such-like. "Indeed,"
Andy went on, entering on a narrative, as he
himself took up the teapot, "I don't know
what's coming over him lately, the crature. I
don't like the way he's in at all now; there's the
truth, and no lie. His chist's always wrong—
always, always—and I'm not pleased at all with
the way he's in. And he'll see no docthors,
and he has the old thing always on his mind."

They were a little alarmed at this description,
which was indeed true; for, as any one might
have read from Colonel Howard's face, he was
always ill, and at the moment of his arrival
brought with him a heavy cold and cough which
he did not care to tend or try to cure beyond
the "little sup of tea" which Andy had brought
up. Yet by the middle of the day he had forced
himself, as he always did, to get up and go
about, and said he was perfectly well.

That day was an almost feverish day. It
was the day before the marriage, and a
hundred things "turned up" and presented
themselves after lying back expressly, as it were,
and which had to be done, and done hurriedly.
Yet, with Lucy, it was only one of her ordinary
days; and, though working hard like her
mother, she sang merrily as she worked. The
village milliner, still employed only out of
good nature—for her touch was a little rude
and coarse—was seen in the bedroom hemmed
in with prostrate dresses, which were on boxes,
on beds, all about her, in helpless overthrow,
like dying heroines. She was excited with the
desperation and hurry of the crisis, and worked
in a sort of dishabille, stripped, as it were, to
give her freedom. Long after, she often
dwelt on these days; for nothing like them,
either in the employment or its reward, ever
after occurred.

Yet neither mother nor daughter was "put
out" by this flutter, nor was there need to mark
them "dangerous," as is common with too
many persons on such occasions. The mother
and daughter sat together and talked, sometimes
of the great event that was drawing near,
but in truth a good deal more of the guest who
had arrived last night. He was gone out, and
from the windows they had seen him holding
his "little man's" hand as they both walked
off together round the lake on the promised
expedition to the doctor's observatory.

That day passed by too quickly. But towards
evening all had been done that was to be done.
They had been down to Mr. Trail's church—a
charming little village church—rather new, its
tower and spire being tiled over with warm
genial tiling, made out of the clay of the place.
The genteel people of the place were for the
best Welsh slates, but the vicar and his architect
felt that there was fitness in this local
covering. The village people had worked very
hard and decorated the inside very prettily.
Colonel Howard was nearly all the day away
at the doctor's house, looking at the instruments,
in which his boy found such a fascination.
They came home towards four, and as they
walked up the avenue, the boy's hand still in
his, and he in a sort of reverie, they saw a
chaise at the door with a portmanteau on it.
This awakened him, and he stopped a moment.
"More company," he was thinking; "this was
not the place for me to come to."

In the hall he met Lucy in all her impetuosity
and flutter. She started when she saw
him.

"Come with me, Cousin Howard," she said,
hastily taking his arm. "Won't you? I want
to show you something."

"My dear Lucy," said he, fondly, "do not