Having been provided with keys, early on the following evening I entered the wine-cellar, and, concealed in an empty cask that would have held a dozen of me, waited for something to turn up.  Really, when I think of myself, a diplomate, a courtier, a man-about-town, curled in a dusty, musty wine-barrel, I am moved with vexation and laughter.  Nothing, however, turned up,—­and at length I retired, baffled.  The next night came,—­no news, no identification of my black-browed man, no success; but I felt certain that something must transpire in that cellar.  I don’t know why I had pitched upon that one in particular, but, at an earlier hour than on the previous night, I again donned the cask.  A long time must have elapsed; dead silence filled the spacious vaults, except where now and then some Sillery cracked the air with a quick explosion, or some newer wine bubbled round the bung of its barrel with a faint effervescence.  I had no intention of leaving this place till morning, but it suddenly appeared like the most woful waste of time.  The master of this tremendous affair should be abroad and active; who knew what his keen eyes might detect, what loss his absence might occasion in this nick of time?  And here he was, shut up and locked in a wine-cellar!  I began to be very nervous; I had already, with aid, searched every crevice of the cellar; and now I thought it would be some consolation to discover the thief, if I never regained the diamond.  A distant clock tolled midnight.  There was a faint noise,—­a mouse?—­no, it was too prolonged;—­nor did it sound like the fiz of Champagne;—­a great iron door was turning on its hinges; a man with a lantern was entering; another followed, and another.  They seated themselves.  In a few moments, appearing one by one and at intervals, some thirty people were in the cellar.  Were they all to share in the proceeds of the diamond?  With what jaundiced eyes we behold things!  I myself saw all that was only through the lens of this diamond, of which not one of these men had ever heard.  As the lantern threw its feeble glimmer on this group, and I surveyed them through my loophole, I thought I had never seen so wild and savage a picture, such enormous shadows, such bold outline, such a startling flash on the face of their leader, such light retreating up the threatening arches.  More resolute brows, more determined words, more unshrinking hearts, I had not met.  In fact, I found myself in the centre of a conspiracy, a society as vindictive as the Jacobins, as unknown and terrible as the Marianne of to-day.  I was thunderstruck, too, at the countenances on which the light fell,—­men the loyalest in estimation, ministers and senators, millionnaires who had no reason for discontent, dandies whose reason was supposed to be devoted to their tailors, poets and artists of generous aspiration and suspected tendencies, and one woman,—­Delphine de St. Cyr.  Their plans were brave, their determination lofty, their conclave serious and fine; yet as slowly they shut up their hopes and fears in the black masks, one man bent toward the lantern to adjust his.  When he lifted his face before concealing it, I recognized him also.  I had met him frequently at the Bureau of Police; he was, I believe, Secretary of the Secret Service.