between the rue de lille and the boulevard st. germain, in the narrow streets which to this day have survived the sweeping influence of baron haussmann, once prefect of the seine, there are many houses which scarcely seem to have opened door or window since the great revolution.

one of these, to be precise, is situated in the ruelle st. jacob, hardly wider than a lane—a short street with a blind end against high walls—into which any vehicle that enters must needs do so with the knowledge of having to back out again. for there is no room to turn. which is an allegory. all the windows, in fact, that look forlornly at the blank walls or peep over the high gateways into the ruelle st. jacob are royalist windows looking into a street which is blinded by a high wall and is too narrow to allow of turning.

many of the windows would appear to have gathered dust since those days more than a hundred years ago when white faces peeped from them and trembling hands unbarred the sash to listen to the roar of voices in the rue du bac, in the open space by the church of st. germain des pres, in the cite, all over paris, where the people were making history.

to this house in the ruelle st. jacob, dormer colville and loo barebone made their way on foot, on their arrival in paris at the termination of their long journey.

it was nearly dark, for colville had arranged to approach the city and leave their horses at a stable at meudon after dusk.

“it is foolish,” he said, gaily, to his companion, “to flaunt a face like yours in paris by daylight.”

they had driven from meudon in a hired carriage to the corner of the champ de mars, in those days still innocent of glass houses and exhibition buildings, for paris was not yet the toy-shop of the world; and from the champ de mars they came on foot through the ill-paved, feebly lighted streets. in the ruelle st. jacob itself there was only one lamp, burning oil, swinging at the corner. the remainder of the lane depended for its illumination on the windows of two small shops retailing firewood and pickled gherkins and balls of string grey with age, as do all the shops in the narrow streets on the wrong side of the seine.

dormer colville led the way, picking his steps from side to side of the gutter which meandered odoriferously down the middle of the street toward the river. he stopped in front of the great gateway and looked up at the arch of it, where the stone carving had been carefully obliterated by some enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet.

“ichabod,” he said, with a short laugh; and cautiously laid hold of the dangling bell-handle which had summoned the porter to open to a queen in those gay days when marie antoinette light-heartedly pushed a falling monarchy down the incline.

the great gate was not opened in response, but a small side door, deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall. on either jamb of the door was affixed in the metal letters ordained by the municipality the number eight. number eight ruelle st. jacob had once been known to kings as the hotel gemosac.

the man who opened carried a lantern and held the door ajar with a grudging hand while he peered out. one could almost imagine that he had survived the downfall and the restoration, and a couple of republics, behind the high walls.

the court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no bigger than an apple, and, even by the flickering light of the lantern, it was perceptible that no weed had been allowed to grow between the stones or in the seams of the wide, low steps that led to an open door.

the house appeared to be dark and deserted.

“yes, monsieur le marquis—monsieur le marquis is at home,” muttered the man with a bronchial chuckle, and led the way across the yard. he wore a sort of livery, which must have been put away for years. a young man had been measured for the coat which now displayed three deep creases across a bent back.

“attention—attention!” he said, in a warning voice, while he scraped a sulphur match in the hall. “there are holes in the carpets. it is easy to trip and fall.”

he lighted the candle, and after having carefully shut and bolted the door, he led the way upstairs. at their approach, easily audible in the empty house by reason of the hollow creaking of the oak floor, a door was opened at the head of the stairs and a flood of light met the new-comers.

in the doorway, which was ten feet high, the little bent form of the marquis de gemosac stood waiting.

“ah! ah!” he said, with that pleasant manner of his generation, which was refined and spirituelle and sometimes dramatic, and yet ever failed to touch aught but the surface of life. “ah! ah! safely accomplished—the great journey. safely accomplished. you permit—”

and he embraced barebone after the custom of his day.

“from all sides,” he said, when the door was closed, “i hear that you have done great things. from every quarter one hears your praise.”

he held him at arm's length.

“yes,” he said. “your face is graver and—more striking in resemblance than ever. so now you know—now you have seen.”

“yes,” answered barebone, gravely. “i have seen and i know.”

the marquis rubbed his white hands together and gave a little crackling laugh of delight as he drew forward a chair to the fire, which was of logs as long as a barrel. the room was a huge one, and it was lighted from end to end with lamps, as if for a reception or a ball. the air was damp and mouldly. there were patches of grey on the walls, which had once been painted with garlands of roses and cupids and pastoral scenes by a noted artist of the great age.

the ceiling had fallen in places, and the woodwork of the carved furniture gave forth a subtle scent of dry rot.

but everything was in an exquisite taste which vulgarer generations have never yet succeeded in imitating. nothing was concealed, but rather displayed with a half-cynical pride. all was moth-ridden, worm-eaten, fallen to decay—but it was of the monarchy. not half a dozen houses in paris, where already the wealth, which has to-day culminated in a ridiculous luxury of outward show, was beginning to build new palaces, could show room after room furnished in the days of the great louis. the very air, faintly scented it would seem by some forgotten perfume, breathed of a bygone splendour. and the last of the de gemosacs scorned to screen his poverty from the eyes of his equals, nor sought to hide from them a desolation which was only symbolic of that which crushed their hearts and bade them steal back from time to time like criminals to the capital.

“you see,” he said to colville and barebone, “i have kept my promise, i have thrown open this old house once more for to-night's meeting. you will find that many friends have made the journey to paris for the occasion—madame de chantonnay and albert, madame de rathe and many from the vendee and the west whom you have met on your journey. and to-night one may speak without fear, for none will be present who are not vouched for by the almanac de gotha. there are no royalists pour rire or pour vivre to-night. you have but time to change your clothes and dine. your luggage arrived yesterday. you will forgive the stupidity of old servants who have forgotten their business. come, i will lead the way and show you your rooms.”

he took a candle and did the honours of the deserted dust-ridden house in the manner of the high calling which had been his twenty years ago when charles x. was king. for some there lingers a certain pathos in the sight of a belated survival, while the majority of men and women are ready to smile at it instead. and yet the monarchy lasted eight centuries and the revolution eight years. perhaps fate may yet exact payment for the excesses of those eight years from a nation for which the watching world already prepares a secondary place in the councils of empire.

the larger room had been assigned to loo. there was a subtle difference in the marquis's manner toward him. he made an odd bow as he quitted the room.

“there,” said colville, whose room communicated with this great apartment by a dressing-room and two doors. he spoke in english, as they always did when they were alone together. “there—you are launched. you are lance, my friend. i may say you are through the shoals now and out on the high seas—”

he paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room with a reflective smile. it was obviously the best room in the house, with a fireplace as wide as a gate, where logs of pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs. the bed loomed mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of gobelin tapestry. here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy lingered in the atmosphere. a portrait of louis xvi. in a faded frame hung over the mantelpiece.

“and the time will come,” pursued colville, with his melancholy, sympathetic smile, “when you will find it necessary to drop the pilot—to turn your face seaward and your back upon old recollections and old associations. you cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, my friend.”

“oh yes,” replied barebone, with a brisk movement of the head, “i shall have to forget farlingford.”

colville had moved toward the door that led to his own room. he paused, examining the wick of the candle he carried in his hand. then, though glib of speech, he decided in favour of silence, and went away without making reply.

loo sat down in a grey old arm-chair in front of the fire. the house was astoundingly noiseless, though situated in what had once been the heart of paris. it was one of the few houses left in this quarter with a large garden. and the traffic passing in and out of the ruelle st. jacob went slipshod on its own feet. the busy crackle of the wood was the only sound to break a silence which seemed part of this vast palace of memories.

loo had ridden far and was tired. he smiled grimly at the fire. it is to be supposed that he was sitting down to the task he had set himself—to forget farlingford.

there was a great reception at the hotel gemosac that night, and after twenty years of brooding silence the rooms, hastily set in order, were lighted up.

there was, as the marquis had promised, no man or woman present who was not vouched for by a noble name or by history. as the old man presented them, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face looking at loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a past which the world will never forget so long as history lives.

and here, again, was the subtle difference. they no longer talked to loo, but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice. men made their bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes. some made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. others embarked on such a speech and paused—faltered, and passed on gulping something down in their throats.

women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lips and white faces—no coquetry in their eyes. they saw that he was young and good-looking; but they forgot that he might think the same of them. then they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women do in moments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively seeking the company of other souls tuned to catch a hundred passing vibrations of the heart-strings of which men remain in ignorance. they spoke together in lowered voices without daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and look at him again.

“it only remains,” some one said, “for the duchesse d'angouleme to recognise his claim. a messenger has departed for frohsdorf.”

and barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a barrier between him and them which none could cast aside: a barrier erected in the past and based on the sure foundations of history.

“she is an old woman,” said monsieur de gemosac to any who spoke to him on this subject. “she is seventy-two, and fifty-eight of those years have been marked by greater misfortunes than ever fell to the lot of a woman. when she came out of prison she had no tears left, my friends. we cannot expect her to turn back willingly to the past now. but we know that in her heart she has never been sure that her brother died in the temple. you know how many disappointments she has had. we must not awake her sleeping sorrow until all is ready. i shall make the journey to frohsdorf—that i promise you. but to-night we have another task before us.”

“yes—yes,” answered his listeners. “you are to open the locket. where is it?—show it to us.”

and the locket which captain clubbe's wife had given to dormer colville was handed from one to another. it was not of great value, but it was of gold with stones, long since discoloured, set in silver around it. it was crushed and misshapen.

“it has never been opened for twenty years,” they told each other. “it has been mislaid in an obscure village in england for nearly half a century.”

“the vicomte de castel aunet—who is so clever a mechanician—has promised to bring his tools,” said monsieur de gemosac. “he will open it for us—even if he find it necessary to break the locket.”

so the thing went round the room until it came to loo barebone.

“i have seen it before,” he said. “i think i remember seeing it long ago—when i was a little child.”

and he handed it to the old vicomte de castel aunet, whose shaking fingers closed round it in a breathless silence. he carried it to the table, and some one brought candles. the vicomte was very old. he had learnt clock-making, they said, in prison during the terror.

“il n'y a moyen,” he whispered to himself. “i must break it.”

with one effort he prised up the cover, but the hinge snapped, and the lid rolled across the table into barebone's hand.

“ah!” he cried, in that breathless silence, “now i remember it. i remember the red silk lining of the cover, and in the other side there is the portrait of a lady with—”

the vicomte paused, with his palm covering the other half of the locket and looked across at loo. and the eyes of all royalist france were fixed on the same face.

“silence!” whispered dormer colville in english, crushing barebone's foot under the table.