on the shoulder, and disturbing his slumbers; "rouse yourself,
man; the court will be up directly--already your brother officer is
chuckling that his guard hour will not last half a one."

"De Mortemart!" cried Boussac, springing from his seat and grasping
the newcomer's hand with his own, while with the other he clapped his
wig on. "De Mortemart--what brings you here? Have you got the route,
is the regiment returned to Paris?"

"No such chance, _mon ami_, our luck is out. Neither Paris, nor, _ma
foi_! a campaign for us--we are stewed up in Rambouillet for another
year. And, _peste_! the only woman there worth a pistole has turned
out the vilest of creatures. We cannot even sup with her now, or take
a glass of ratafia or a cup of chocolate from her hands."

"That is not well. But what--what--brings you here? Come, tell me,"
and drawing the wine flask toward him he poured out a drink for his
comrade. "And you look sad, De Mortemart; is it because of the 'vilest
of creatures'?"

Then, without more ado, his friend told what had brought him to Paris
and in the vicinity of the _cours criminel_.

As he proceeded with his story--telling it all from the beginning,
when la belle Louvigny had sent to the commandant, apprising him of an
escaped _galerien_ in her house--he marvelled at the excitement which
took possession of his auditor. At the statement that the betrayed man
was branded, was in truth an escaped galley slave, Boussac had sprung
to his feet and commenced to pace the guardroom; when he described the
scene he had witnessed between him and Madame de Louvigny, he could
contain himself no longer.

"The man, De Mortemart, the man!" he broke out, "describe him to me."
And without giving his friend time to do so, he went on:

"Tall, slight, long brown hair, curling at the ends, gray eyes--deep
and clear. Gentleman to the tips of his fingers; a soldier above all."

"Ay, he has been a soldier."

"And his name--his name, my friend. It must be St. Georges. Come from
England, you say, with the English fleet. It _is_ St. Georges!"

"Nay, his name he will not tell. But this I know: he was once of the
Chevaux-Legers of Nivernois."

"My God! it is he!" and overcome with excitement Boussac sank back
into his seat again.

Rapidly De Mortemart told the rest--the coxswain's evidence; the
certain doom that must be St. Georges's must be pronounced by now,
since, outside, the clatter of the Mousquetaires could be heard,
proc