h denoted the enmity of intelligent minds.

"It is war to the death," he said to himself, as he tossed in his
bed,--"a war of savages, skulking in ambush, of trickery and treachery,
declared in the name of Madame Jules. What sort of man is this to whom
she belongs? What species of power does this Ferragus wield?"

Monsieur de Maulincour, though a soldier and brave man, could not
repress a shudder. In the midst of many thoughts that now assailed him,
there was one against which he felt he had neither defence nor courage:
might not poison be employed ere long by his secret enemies? Under the
influence of fears, which his momentary weakness and fever and low diet
increased, he sent for an old woman long attached to the service of his
grandmother, whose affection for himself was one of those semi-maternal
sentiments which are the sublime of the commonplace. Without confiding
in her wholly, he charged her to buy secretly and daily, in different
localities, the food he needed; telling her to keep it under lock and
key and bring it to him herself, not allowing any one, no matter who, to
approach her while preparing it. He took the most minute precautions to
protect himself against that form of death. He was ill in his bed
and alone, and he had therefore the leisure to think of his own
security,--the one necessity clear-sighted enough to enable human
egotism to forget nothing!

But the unfortunate man had poisoned his own life by this dread, and,
in spite of himself, suspicion dyed all his hours with its gloomy tints.
These two lessons of attempted assassination did teach him, however, the
value of one of the virtues most necessary to a public man; he saw the
wise dissimulation that must be practised in dealing with the great
interests of life. To be silent about our own secret is nothing; but to
be silent from the start, to forget a fact as Ali Pacha did for thirty
years in order to be sure of a vengeance waited for for thirty years,
is a fine study in a land where there are few men who can keep their
own counsel for thirty days. Monsieur de Maulincour literally lived only
through Madame Jules. He was perpetually absorbed in a sober examination
into the means he ought to employ to triumph in this mysterious struggle
with these mysterious persons. His secret passion for that woman grew
by reason of all these obstacles. Madame Jules was ever there, erect, in
the midst of his thoughts, in the centre of his heart, more seductive