hree of the places dotted
with red crosses. And, whilst he thus pointed to three towns, in very
different parts of the world, he named them aloud, with a sneer.

"Leipsic--Charlestown--Batavia."

"In each of these three places," he added, "distant as they are from one
another, there exist persons who little think that here, in this
obscure street, from the recesses of this chamber, wakeful eyes are
upon them--that all their movements are followed, all their actions
known--and that hence will issue new instructions, which deeply concern
them, and which will be inexorably executed; for an interest is at
stake, which may have a powerful influence on Europe--on the world.
Luckily, we have friends at Leipsic, Charlestown, and Batavia."

This funny, old, sordid, ill-dressed man, with his livid and death-like
countenance, thus crawling over the sphere before him, appeared still
more awful than his master, when the latter, erect and haughty, had
imperiously laid his hand upon that globe, which he seemed desirous of
subjecting by the strength of his pride and courage. The one resembled
the eagle, that hovers above his prey--the other the reptile, that
envelops its victim in its inextricable folds.

After some minutes, Rodin approached his desk, rubbing his hands briskly
together, and wrote the following epistle in a cipher unknown even to
his master:

"Paris, 3/4 past 9 A.M.

"He is gone--but he hesitated!

"When he received the order, his dying mother had just summoned him
to her. He might, they told him, save her by his presence; and he
exclaimed: 'Not to go to my mother would be matricide!'

"Still, he is gone--but he hesitated. I keep my eye upon him
continually. These lines will reach Rome at the same time as himself.

"P.S.--Tell the Cardinal-Prince that he may rely on me, but I hope for
his active aid in return."

When he had folded and sealed this letter, Rodin put it into his pocket.
The clock struck ten, M. Rodin's hour for breakfast. He arranged and
locked up his papers in a drawer, of which he carried away the key,
brushed his old greasy hat with his sleeve, took a patched umbrella in
his hand, and went out. (1)

Whilst these two men, in the depths of their obscure retreat, were thus
framing a plot, which was to involve the seven descendants of a race
formerly proscribed--a strange mysterious defender was planning how to
protect this family, which was also his own.

1 Having cited the excellent, courag