He was inflexible, and, having exhausted every artifice of innocence, wiped the tears from his eyes,—­oh, these French! life is their theatre,—­and remained quiet.  It was getting dark.  There was no gas in the place; but in the pause a distant street-lamp swung its light dimly round.

“Unless one desires to purchase, allow me to say that it is my hour for closing,” he remarked, blandly, rubbing his black-bearded chin.

“My time is valuable,” I returned.  “It is late and dark.  When your shop-boy lights up”——­

“Pardon,—­we do not light.”

“Permit me, then, to perform that office for you.  In this blaze you may perceive my companions, whom you have not appeared to recognize.”

So saying, I scratched a match upon the floor, and, as the sergent-de-ville and the gendarme advanced, threw the light of the blue spirt of sulphurous flame upon them.  In a moment more the match went out, and we remained in the demi-twilight of the distant lantern.  The marchand des armures stood petrified and aghast.  Had he seen the imps of Satan in that instant, it could have had no greater effect.

“You have seen them?” I asked.  “I regret to inconvenience you; but unless this diamond is produced at once, my friends will put their seal on your goods, your property will be confiscated, yourself in a dungeon.  In other words, I allow you five minutes; at the close of that time you will have chosen between restitution and ruin.”

He remained apparently lost in thought.  He was a big, stout man, and with one blow of his powerful fist could easily have settled me.  It was the last thing in his mind.  At length he lifted his head,—­“Rosalie!” he called.

At the word, a light foot pattered along a stone floor within, and in a moment a little woman stood in an arch raised by two steps from our own level.  Carrying a candle, she descended and tripped toward him.  She was not pretty, but sprightly and keen, as the perpetual attrition of life must needs make her, and wore the everlasting grisette costume, which displays the neatest of ankles, and whose cap is more becoming than wreaths of garden millinery.  I am too minute, I see, but it is second nature.  The two commenced a vigorous whispering amid sundry gestures and glances.  Suddenly the woman turned, and, laying the prettiest of little hands on my sleeve, said, with a winning smile,—­

“Is it a crime of lese-majeste?”

This was a new idea, but might be useful.

“Not yet,” I said; “two minutes more, and I will not answer for the consequence.”

Other whispers ensued.

“Monsieur,” said the man, leaning on one arm over the counter, and looking up in my face, with the most engaging frankness,—­“it is true that I have such a diamond; but it is not mine.  It is left with me to be delivered to the Baron Stahl, who comes as an agent from his court for its purchase.”