3


He was neither old nor white-haired. He was, as well as I, in my childish
way could judge, about thirty-five years of age, pale, slight, dark-eyed,
delicate-looking. His chains did not rattle as he walked, for the simple
reason that, being a prisoner on parole, he suffered no kind of restraint,
but was as free as myself of the Chateau and grounds. He wore his hair
long, tied behind with a narrow black ribbon, and very slightly powdered;
and he dressed always in deep mourning--black, all black, from head to
foot, even to his shoe-buckles. He was a Frenchman, and he went by the name
of Monsieur Maurice.

I cannot tell how I knew that this was only his Christian name; but so it
was, and I knew him by no other, neither did my father. I have, indeed,
evidence among our private papers to show that neither by those in
authority at Berlin, nor by the prisoner himself, was he at any time
informed either of the family name of Monsieur Maurice, or of the nature of
the offence, whether military or political, for which that gentleman was
consigned to his keeping at Bruehl.

"Of one thing at least I am certain," said my father, holding out his pipe
for me to fill it. "He is a soldier."

It was just after dinner, the second day following our prisoner's arrival,
and I was sitting on my father's knee before the fire, as was our pleasant
custom of an afternoon.