he Secret Service.

I had no sympathy with these people. I had liberty enough myself, I was
well enough satisfied with the world, I did not care to revolutionize
France; but my heart rebelled at the mockery, as this traitor and
spy, this creature of a system by which I gained my fame, showed his
revolting face and veiled it again. And Delphine, what had she to do
with them? One by one, as they entered, they withdrew, and I was left
alone again. But all this was not my diamond.

Another hour elapsed. Again the door opened, and remained ajar. Some one
entered, whom I could not see. There was a pause,--then a rustle,--the
door creaked ever so little. "Art thou there?" lisped a shrill
whisper,--a woman, as I could guess.

"My angel, it is I," was returned, a semitone lower. She approached, he
advanced, and the consequence was a salute resonant as the smack with
which a Dutch burgomaster may be supposed to set down his mug. I was
prepared for anything. Ye gods! if it should be Delphine! But the base
suspicion was birth-strangled as they spoke again. The conversation
which now ensued between these lovers under difficulties was tender and
affecting beyond expression. I had felt guilty enough when an unwilling
auditor of the conspirators,--since, though one employs spies, one
does not therefore act that part one's-self, but on emergencies,--an
unwillingness which would not, however, prevent my turning to advantage
the information gained; but here, to listen to this rehearsal of woes
and blisses, this _ah mon Fernand_, this aria in an area, growing
momently more fervent, was too much. I overturned the cask, scrambled
upon my feet, and fled from the cellar, leaving the astounded lovers to
follow, while, agreeably to my instincts, and regardless of the diamond,
I escaped the embarrassing predicament.

At length it grew to be noon of the appointed day. Nothing had
transpired; all our labor was idle. I felt, nevertheless, more buoyant
than usual,--whether because I was now to put my fate to the test, or
that today was the one of which my black-browed man had spoken, and I
therefore entertained a presentiment of good-fortune, I cannot say. But
when, in unexceptionable toilet, I stood on Mme. de St. Cyr's steps,
my heart sunk. G. was doubtless already within, and I thought of the
_marchand des armures'_ exclamation, "Queen of Heaven, Monsieur! how
shall I meet him!" I was plunged at once into the profoundest gloom.
Why had I under