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 undertaken the business at all?  This interference, this good-humor, this readiness to oblige,—­it would ruin me yet!  I forswore it, as Falstaff forswore honor.  Why needed I to meddle in the melee? Why—­But I was no catechumen.  Questions were useless now.  My emotions are not chronicled on my face, I flatter myself; and with my usual repose I saluted our hostess.  Greeting G. without any allusion to the diamond, the absence of which allusion he received as a point of etiquette, I was conversing with Mrs. Leigh, when the