"Ah," thought he, "if James should be dead!"
At the distance of twelve miles from Paris, this ancient brick chateau or palace is beautifully situated on the slope of a verdant hill, at the base of which flows the Seine, and opposite lies an immense forest. From the earliest ages, St. Germain-en-laye had been a hunting-seat of the French kings; but in compliment to his mistress, whose name was Diana, Francis I. (a monarch unequalled in gallantry, generosity, and magnificence) built the present palace in form of the letter D, with five towers, the vanes of which were gleaming like gold in the setting sun as Walter approached. A dry fosse crossed by drawbridges surrounded this noble chateau, which had on one side a range of beautiful arcades built by Henry IV. and Louis XIII., and a magnificent terrace 2,700 yards long and 50 broad, extending by the side of the dark-green forest, and from which, as our exile traversed it, he had a full view of the Seine winding through a beautiful country, bordered on each side by waving meadows, vineyards of the deepest green, and cornfields of the brightest yellow, villages of white cottages thatched with light-coloured straw, that clustered round the turreted chateaux or the ramparted châtelets of a noblesse that were then the most aristocratic in Europe.
But Walter saw only the home of the exiled Stuarts. On the ruddy brick-walls, the latticed casements, and gothic towers, the setting sun was pouring a flood of light as it set at the cloudless horizon. From the summit of the edifice, the royal standard of Britain hung down listlessly and still, and the same absence of life seemed to pervade all beneath it. The ditch was overgrown with luxuriant weeds, and long tufts of pendant grass waved in the joints of the masonry; great branches of vine and ivy had clambered up the walls of the palace, and flourished in masses on its terraced roofs and balconies. There was no one visible at any of the windows; the gateway, which was surmounted by a stone salamandre (the cognizance of Francis I.), was shut, and save two sentinels of the French guards, who stood motionless as statues on each side, and an old Jacobite gentleman or two, in full-bottomed wigs and laced coats, promenading slowly and thoughtfully on the terrace, the old chateau seemed lifeless and uninhabited.
As Walter crossed the bridge, and approached the gate with a beating heart, one of the sentinels, after giving a haughty glance at his faded and travel-stained attire, his weary aspect, and bundle, ported his musquet across, and said politely, but firmly—
"Pardonnez, monsieur."
Walter's heart swelled: had he travelled thus far, and reached the palace of his King, only to be repulsed from its gates? His colour came and went, as, with a painful mixture of pride and humility, he replied—
"Mon camarade, I am a poor Scots officer, exiled from his native country, and who has come here to take service in France." The face of the Frenchman flushed, and his eye glistened, as he drew himself up, and presented arms.
"Behold my commission," continued Walter; "I would speak with my noble Lord and Colonel the Earl of Dunbarton."
"Aha," replied the sentinel, "il est bon soldat, Monsieur Dunbartong. Passez, Monsieur officier; un gentilhomme est toujours un gentilhomme, et les braves officiers Eccossais sonts l'admiration de la France!"
Walter bowed at this compliment, the gate was opened by the porters, and, with a heart full of thoughts too deep for words, he found himself within the gloomy quadrangle of the palace of St. Germain-en-laye.