“Six forks! eight spoons!  We shall be four at table:  it will be necessary to be careful; else it will easily be seen something is wanting.  I think, however, it will do.  I must give very precise instructions to John’s wife, for she is a clever woman, and knows what she is about!”

As be uttered the last words he replaced the silver in the basket and locked it in the safe; after which he took the lamp, and, leaving the saloon on tiptoe, descended through a little door into a large vaulted cellar.  Here he hunted about for a considerable time amid stacks of empty bottles, and at last succeeded in finding what he was in search of; but his face became extremely pale as he drew three bottles from the sand.

“Good heavens! only three bottles!” exclaimed he; “three bottles of table-wine! and Monsieur Denecker is such a connoisseur of vintages!  What shall I do if they ask for more when these three bottles are empty?  I have it!  I do not drink, and Lenora drinks very little; so there will be two bottles for Monsieur Denecker and one for his nephew!  But, even at the worst, what is the use of anxiety?  Let luck settle it!”

With this De Vlierbeck went into the corners of the cellar, where he gathered from the walls a quantity of cobwebs, which he wound artistically around the bottles and covered with dust and sand.

On reaching the saloon he went to work with paste and paper to mend some rents in the tapestry on the wall; and then, after passing nearly half an hour in brushing his clothes and disguising their threadbare spots with water and ink, he came back to the table and made preparations for a task which was still more singular than any he had hitherto been engaged in.  Taking from the drawer a silk thread, an awl, and a bit of wax, he put his boot on his knees and began to mend the rents in the leather with the skill of a cobbler!  It will readily be supposed that this odd occupation stirred a variety of emotions in the heart of the poor gentleman; violent twitches and spasms passed over his face; his cheeks became red, then deadly pale; till at last, yielding to a passionate impulse, he cut the silk, threw it on the table, and, with his hands stretched toward the portraits, cried out, with struggling passion,—­

“Yes! behold me,—­behold me,—­ye whose noble blood runs in my veins!  You, brave captain, who, fighting at the side of Egmont, at St. Quentin, gave your life for your country,—­you, statesman and ambassador, who, after the battle of Pavia, rendered such eminent services to the Emperor Charles,—­you, benefactor of your race, who endowed so many hospitals and churches,—­you, proud bishop, who, as priest and scholar, defended so bravely your faith and your God,—­behold me, all of you, not only from that senseless canvas, but from the bosom of God where you are at rest!  He whom you have seen at the wretched task of mending his boots, and who devotes his life to the concealment