restan Mascarin had been inquiring for. "You see," continued
he, "that the police will not permit us to practise the horn; so, you
observe, Father Canon has arranged this underground studio, from whence
no sound reaches the upper world."

The hornplayers had now resumed their lessons, and Florestan was
compelled to place both hands to the side of his mouth, in order to
render himself audible, and to shout with all his might.

"That old fellow there is a huntsman in the service of the Duke de
Champdoce, and is the finest hornplayer going. I have only had twenty
lessons from him, and am getting on wonderfully."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mascarin, "when I have more time I must hear your
performance; but to-day I am in a hurry, and want to say a few words to
you in private."

"Certainly, but suppose we go upstairs and ask for a private room."

The rooms he referred to were not very luxuriously furnished, but were
admirably suited for confidential communications; and had the walls been
able to speak, they could have told many a strange tale.

Florestan and Mascarin seated themselves in one of these before a small
table, upon which Father Canon placed a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"I asked you to meet me here, Florestan," began Mascarin, "because you
can do me a little favor."

"Anything that is in my power I will do," said the young man.

"First, a few words regarding yourself. How do you get on with Count de
Mussidan?"

Mascarin had adopted an air of familiarity which he knew would please
his companion.

"I don't care about the place," replied Florestan, "and I am going to
ask Beaumarchef to look out another one for me."

"I am surprised at that; all your predecessors said that the Count was a
perfect gentleman--"

"Just try him yourself," broke in the valet. "In the first place he is
as fickle as the wind, and awfully suspicious. He never leaves anything
about,--no letters, no cigars, and no money. He spends half his time in
locking things up, and goes to bed with his keys under his pillow."

"I allow that such suspicion on his part is most unpleasant."

"It is indeed, and besides he is awfully violent. He gets in a rage
about nothing, and half a dozen times in the day he looks ready to
murder you. On my word, I am really frightened at him."

This account, coupled with what he had heard from Hortebise seemed to
render Mascarin very thoughtful.

"Is he always like this, or only at intervals?"

"He is alway