. They were
given in the hope that he would commit something to writing which,
without his intending it, might compromise the character of the queen.
But in this her enemies were disappointed.

On Choisseul's entering Chatelard's dungeon, the latter, as we have
already said, was busily engaged in writing. He was inditing a last
farewell to the queen in verse. On this employment he was so intent,
that he did not observe, or at least pay any attention to, the entrance
of Choisseul, but continued writing on till he had completed his task,
which now, however, occupied only a very few minutes. On finishing--

"'Tis done," he said, and threw down his pen with violence on the table.
"These are the last notes of the harp of Chatelard. Ha, Choisseul!" he
immediately added, and only now for the first time seeming conscious of
that person's presence; "I am glad to see you, my countryman. This is
kind. I thought there were none in this strange land to care for me. But
they shall see, Choisseul," he added, proudly, "how a Frenchman and a
poet can die. That is, boldly and bravely. He were no true poet whose
soul was not elevated above the fear of death. I said, my friend," he
went on, after a momentary pause, and sighing deeply as he spoke, "that
I thought there were none in this land to care for me, or to sorrow for
me--and perhaps it is so; but there is one, Choisseul, whom I would not
willingly believe indifferent to my fate. She surely, much as I have
offended her, will say, 'Poor Chatelard!' Nay, methinks I see a tear
standing in that peerless eye, when she recalls the memory of her
departed poet. That--that, Choisseul," said the unhappy captive, with an
enthusiasm which even the near approach of death had not been able to
abate--"that would be something worth dying for!"

Choisseul smiled.

"You hold your life lightly, indeed, Chatelard," he said, speaking in
his native language, "if you think its loss compensated by a woman's
tear."

"Ah, Choisseul, but such a woman!" exclaimed Chatelard.

"Well, well," replied the former, again smiling; "but you can have no
doubt that _she_ at least will regret your death. _She_ loved you too
well not to deplore your fate."

"Did she?" exclaimed Chatelard, eagerly, and with such a look of inquiry
and doubt as greatly disappointed the asserter. "You know who I mean,
then; but how know ye that which you have just now said? Assure me that
ye speak true, Choisseul, and I shall die happy."