“Monsieur,” replied Monck, in French, “you speak our language well for a son of the continent. I ask your pardon—for doubtless the question is indiscreet—do you speak French with the same purity?”
“There is nothing surprising, my lord, in my speaking English tolerably; I resided for some time in England in my youth, and since then I have made two voyages to this country.” These words were spoken in French, and with a purity of accent that bespoke not only a Frenchman, but a Frenchman from the vicinity of Tours.
“And what part of England have you resided in, Monsieur?”
“In my youth, London, my lord; then, about 1635, I made a pleasure trip to Scotland; and lastly, in 1648, I lived for some time at Newcastle, particularly in the convent, the gardens of which are now occupied by your army.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur; but you must comprehend that these questions are necessary on my part—do you not?”
“It would astonish me, my lord, if they were not asked.”
“Now, then, Monsieur, what can I do to serve you? What do you wish?”
“This, my lord;—but, in the first place, are we alone?”
“Perfectly so, Monsieur, except, of course, the post which guards us.” So saying, Monck pulled open the canvas with his hand, and pointed to the soldier placed at ten paces from the tent, and who, at the first call, could have rendered assistance in a second.
“In that case, my lord,” said the gentleman, in as calm a tone as if he had been for a length of time in habits of intimacy with his interlocutor, “I have made up my mind to address myself to you, because I believe you to be an honest man. Indeed, the communication I am about to make to you will prove to you the esteem in which I hold you.”
Monck, astonished at this language, which established between him and the French gentleman equality at least, raised his piercing eye to the stranger’s face, and with a sensible irony conveyed by the inflection of his voice alone, for not a muscle of his face moved—“I thank you, Monsieur,” said he; “but, in the first place, to whom have I the honor of speaking?”
“I sent you my name by your sergeant, my lord.”
“Excuse him, Monsieur, he is a Scotsman—he could not retain it.”
“I am called the Comte de la Fère, Monsieur,” said Athos, bowing.
“The Comte de la Fère?” said Monck, endeavoring to recollect the name. “Pardon me, Monsieur, but this appears to be the first time I have ever heard that name. Do you fill any post at the court of France?”
“None; I am a simple gentleman.”
“What dignity?”
“King Charles I made me a knight of the Garter, and Queen Anne of Austria has given me the cordon of the Holy Ghost. These are my only dignities.”
“The Garter! the Holy Ghost! Are you a knight of those two orders, Monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“And on what occasions have such favors been bestowed upon you?”
“For services rendered to Their Majesties.”
Monck looked with astonishment at this man, who appeared to him so simple and so great at the same time. Then, as if he had renounced endeavoring to penetrate this mystery of a simplicity and grandeur upon which the stranger did not seem disposed to give him any other information than that which he had already received—“Did you present yourself yesterday at our advanced posts?”
“And was sent back? Yes, my lord.”
“Many officers, Monsieur, would permit no one to enter their camp, particularly on the eve of a probable battle. But I differ from my colleagues, and like to leave nothing behind me. Every advice is good to me; all danger is sent to me by God, and I weigh it in my hand with the energy He has given me. So, yesterday, you were only sent back on account of the council I was holding. Today I am at liberty—speak.”
“My lord, you have done much better in receiving me, for what I have to say has nothing to do with the battle you are about to fight with General Lambert, or with your camp; and the proof is, that I turned away my head that I might not see your men, and closed my eyes that I might not count your tents. No, I came to speak to you, my lord, on my own account.”
“Speak then, Monsieur,” said Monck.
“Just now,” continued Athos, “I had the honor of telling your lordship that for a long time I lived in Newcastle; it was in the time of Charles I, and when the king was given up to Cromwell by the Scots.”
“I know,” said Monck, coldly.
“I had at that time a large sum in gold, and on the eve of the battle, from a presentiment perhaps of the turn which things would take on the morrow, I concealed it in the principal vault of the convent of Newcastle, in the tower whose summit you now see silvered by the moonbeams. My treasure has then remained interred there, and I have come to entreat your honor to permit me to withdraw it before, perhaps, the battle turning that way, a mine or some other war engine has destroyed the building and scattered my gold, or rendered it so apparent that the soldiers will take possession of it.”
Monck was well acquainted with mankind; he saw in the physiognomy of this gentleman all the energy, all the reason, all the circumspection possible; he could therefore only attribute to a magnanimous confidence the revelation the Frenchman had made him, and he showed himself profoundly touched by it.
“Monsieur,” said he, “you have augured well of me. But is the sum worth the trouble to which you expose yourself? Do you even believe that it can be in the same place where you left it?”
“It is there Monsieur, I do not doubt.”
“That is a reply to one question; but to the other. I asked you if the sum was
