kingdom was no more spared by him than
by his master. But a change arrived—two
reigns had intervened—and a second time he
visited these walls, more as a prisoner than a
prince; he was then a grey-headed, gloomy,
morose, miserable man, deserted by all the
former companions of his profligacy whom
the axe and the sword had spared, and here
he came to hide himself from a court which
his vices had disgraced.

Marie de Medicis, the prisoner of her son
at Blois, also arrived here, in night and silence,
escaped from her captivity, and entreated
shelter of the old favourite, who had been
suspected of knowing more than was honest
of the murder of her husband, Henry the
Fourth.

It is a strange reflection, and one that
might well intrude while one stands before
the door of the great tower of Loches, waiting
till its rusty key turns in the lock, how
unequal is the fate of those who have acted
remarkable parts in the drama of the world.
In spite of the mutations of fortune, mortification,
neglect, disgrace or discontent, in
spite of the overthrow of ambition, the wreck
of hope, the struggles and turmoils that
d'Epernon had gone through, he could not
get rid of the burthen of life till the age of
eighty-eight, when he died in the Castle of
Loches, unregretted, and at once forgotten.

A story is told relating to him, which proves
that men are not to be frightened by tyranny
and power out of their natural wit and
sarcasm. While this favourite of the
contemptible king was in the enjoyment of his
greatest favour, the public criers were
accustomed to carry about a huge book, which
they announced as " The high acts and deeds
of valour and virtue of the most noble Duke
d'Epernon." These books, eagerly purchased,
were found to contain blank paper. I fear
that these historical recollections did not occur
to Achille as he descended the rugged steps,
green, and slimy, and steep, which led, from
stage to stage, to the hideous dark holes in
which these heroes of middle-age romance
were accustomed to place their vassals or
equals, as the case might be, when once in the
power of their vengeance. Our guide, the
jailor, was a good deal interrupted in his
customary story of the place by indignation at
the devastation committed on his steps and
apartments by the late fugitive. Not attempting
to smother the indignation awakened
in his bosom, as he reviewed the ruin
caused by the nail of the man of expedients,
he mixed up his historical records with
allusions to the damage in something like the
following terms:—

"Here you see the dungeon where the
great monarch Louis the Eleventh
(confound his impudence! ) confined his minister
Cardinal Balue in an iron cage—(I wish
there was one here now and Jacques le
Pochard was in it!) This is the place where
the Grand Duke Sforza was lodged, and you
may see where he painted the walls all round
to amuse himself—here, where the flame of
my candle touches the roof—(it'll take me a
whole day to mend the bottom of that door—
the villain!) This is the dungeon where
criminals were fastened to that iron bar in
the middle of the chamber, and were only able
to move from one end to the other by slipping
a link of their chain along—mind the step!
it leads through the dark passage to the next
flight. (I had no idea the rascal had done so
much harm to my steps! if ever I catch him
again, I'll flay him!—the brigand!)"

Nothing could equal the delight of my
blind friend, at finding that he could touch
the damp roofs of these horrible boudoirs for
the favourites of princes with his hand, and
that he could make out the patterns sketched
by the unlucky Duke of Milan on the walls
of the chamber with three rows of bars to the
window, through which the duke found light
enough to pursue his passion for art.

We had seen or felt all at last, and I was
glad to return to the last corridor leading to
daylight, when suddenly our guide exclaimed
that he had left the key in the lock outside,
and that some miscreant in the court had
shut the door upon us. This was startling
intelligence, and we began to feel anything
but satisfaction in the adventure, while our
guide, placing his lips to the huge gaping key-
hole—through which a long line of sunlight
streamed, as if in mockery—roared lustily to
those without. Presently we heard
suppressed tittering, and, after a minute or two of
altercation between the old man's voice and
that of a young girl on the other side, the key
was replaced, turned, and we hastily emerged
to day and freedom.

"I ought to have known," said the old
grandfather, laughing, in spite of his anger,
as a pretty, saucy-looking girl of twelve
bounded across the court and took refuge in
the porter's lodge, " that that young hussey
would never let an opportunity slip of playing
me a trick—brigande /"

Achille seemed more amused with this last
episode than any of our adventures; and it
was with much gaiety, and highly satisfied,
that we descended the stony street, no longer
filled with sellers and buyers, for the market
was over. We had been four hours
exploring! and nothing interrupted the stillness
of the dreary old town but the ringing
laughter of our young companions, and the
pleasant exclamations of the whole party.

It was beyond midnight when we drove
merrily up to the Boulevard Heurteloup, and
found the same two watchful maidens on the
look out for our return. They did not appear
to have been dull in our absence, nor did they
seem afraid of solitude, probably feeling secure
in the opportune presence of the sentinels on
guard, whose measured tread still sounded
along the avenue leading to the railroad
station hard by. Monsieur Faye remarked
that we were fortunate in a moonlight night,