Rosalie reflected profoundly for upwards of a minute: then, suddenly turning towards her mistress, she said, “Can you tell me the names of any of the nobles or gentlemen in the Duke’s suite, besides Mr. Charles Hatfield?”
Laura immediately directed Rosalie’s attention to the paragraph in the Messenger; and the cunning lady’s-maid, having perused it, exclaimed, “Will you leave this matter entirely in my hands, mademoiselle?”
“I will,” answered Laura. “But, whatever be your plan, remember that you must not compromise me. All I demand or require is that Charles Hatfield, accompanied by three or four of his comrades in the Duke’s service, shall visit the Champs Elysées this afternoon. The rest concerns me.”
“I understand you, mademoiselle,” said Rosalie: “you may trust entirely to my discretion, without entertaining the least dread of being in any way compromised.”
The abigail then retired, and Laura was left alone to meditate upon the scheme she had thus set on foot.
How her dependant proposed to act, in order to accomplish that part of the design which had been entrusted to her, Laura could not conceive: nor indeed did she give herself much trouble to conjecture. She placed full reliance upon the tact, discretion, and ability of Rosalie; and regarded success as certain.
In order to while away the time, she turned to her writing-table, and examined a packet which her music-master had left with her on the previous evening. The enclosure consisted of English translations of several of the most popular French songs and national airs; and Laura set herself deliberately to the study of these pieces, well aware that an acquaintance with their tendency and spirit would prove of advantage to her in conversation.
The first manuscript to which she thus earnestly addressed herself, was a free version of that soul-stirring hymn, La Marseillaise:—
LA MARSEILLAISE.
Sons of heroes, famed in story,
Onward march to death or glory!
For see, the foemen’s standard waves
O’er fields that soon must be their graves!
Hear ye the clashing of their arms—
Their shouts portending dire alarms?
Eager for slaughter, on they press
To make your children fatherless.
Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilise the land!