"Ah, bah! you know it yourself, my friend, better than I," replied the
latter. "No use in concealing it now," he added, with an intelligent
look.

"Concealing what, sir?" said Chatelard, in a tone of mingled surprise
and displeasure.

"Why, the affection the queen entertained for you," replied Choisseul.
"We all know, my friend, you would not have done what you did, had she
not encouraged your addresses. And I'll tell you what, Chatelard," he
went on, "I have reason to believe that your life would yet be spared,
if you would only show that this was so."

"Ah, I understand you," said Chatelard, with suppressed passion. "If I
will accuse the queen--if I will put her in the power of her
enemies--her enemies will be obliged to me. In other words, I may save
my life by sacrificing her reputation; and it would be little matter
whether what I said should be true or not. Is it not so, Choisseul?"
Then, without waiting for an answer--"Villain, devil that thou art," he
exclaimed, now suddenly giving full swing to the passion that had been
raised within him, "how hast thou dared to come to me with such an
infamous proposal as this? Didst think, most dastardly knave, that my
soul was as mean as thine own? Begone, begone, ruffian! Thy presence,
thy breath, pollutes my dungeon more than the fetid damps that exhale
from its walls--more than the noxious reptiles that crawl on its floor.
Begone! begone, I say!" And he seized the now trembling caitiff by the
throat, and dashed him against the door of the cell, with a violence
that instantly brought in the guards who were stationed on the outside.
These, seeing how matters stood, hurried Choisseul out of the dungeon,
and again secured the door on its unfortunate inmate.

On leaving Chatelard, Choisseul repaired to the Earl of Murray, but with
infinitely less confidence in his looks and manner than on the former
occasion when his villany had been successful. To the earl he detailed
the particulars of his interview with Chatelard; not forgetting to
mention the rough treatment he had received from the infuriated poet.

"Then he'll confess nothing, Choisseul?" said Murray, when the former
had done speaking.

"Not anything at all, my lor'. Dere is no hope; for he make no more of
dying than I do of taking vone leetle pinch of snuff."

"Obstinate fool," exclaimed the earl, evidently chagrined and
disappointed. "Let him die, then! You may retire, Choisseul," he
abruptly added.

Choi