the provinces. I acted the
'Regent'----"

"I've no doubt of it; and very pretty notions of royalty the audience
must have gained from you. There, that will do. Go back to Nancy, and
try yourself at valets' parts for a year or two--that's the best counsel
I can give you! Adieu! adieu!"

The poor actor retired, discomfited and distressed, at the same instant
that the graceful figure of Richelieu advanced in easy dignity.

"Monsieur Duroset," said the Marechal, seating himself, and speaking in
the voice so habituated to utter commands, "I would speak a few words
with you in confidence, and where we might be certain of not being
overheard."

"Nothing could be better than the present spot, then," said the manager,
who was impressed by the style and bearing of his visitor, without ever
guessing or suspecting his real rank. "The rehearsal will not begin for
half-an-hour. Except that poor devil that has just left me, no one has
entered this morning."

"Sit down, then, and pay attention to what I shall say," said the
Marechal. The words were felt as a command, and instantly obeyed.

"They tell me, M. Duroset, that a young actress, of great beauty
and distinguished ability, is about to appear on these boards, whose
triumphs have been hitherto won only in the provinces. Well, you must
defer her _debut_ for some days; and meanwhile, for the benefit of
her health, she can make a little excursion to the neighbourhood of
Fontainebleau, where, at a short distance from the royal forest, stands
a small chateau. This will be ready for her reception; and where a
more critical taste than even your audiences boast will decide upon her
merits."

"There is but one man in France could make such a proposition!" said the
manager, starting back, half in amazement, half in respect.

"And I am exactly that man," rejoined the Marechal. "There need never be
secrets between men of sense. M. Duroset, the case is this: your beauty,
whose manners and breeding I conjecture to be equal to her charms, must
represent the character of the widowed Countess of Vaugirarde, whose
sorrow for her late husband is all but inconsolable. The solitude of
her retreat will, however, be disturbed by the accidental arrival of a
stranger, who, accompanied by his friend, will demand the hospitality
of the chateau. Grief has not usurped every faculty and _devoir_ of
the fair Countess, who consents the following morning to receive the
respectful homage of the travelle