was as I had surmised.  Goby de Mouchy, my wretched, besotted, miserable secretary, in his visits to the chateau of the Marquis de Bechamel, who was one of our society, had seen Blanche.  I suppose it was because she had been warned that he was worthless, and poor, artful and a coward, she loved him.  She wormed out of the besotted wretch the secrets of our Order.  ‘Did he tell you the number one?’ I asked.

“She said, ‘Yes.’

“‘Did he,’ I further inquired, ‘tell you the—­’

“‘Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me!’ she said, writhing on the sofa, where she lay in the presence of the Marquis de Bechamel, her most unhappy father.  Poor Bechamel, poor Bechamel!  How pale he looked as I spoke!  ‘Did he tell you,’ I repeated with a dreadful calm, ‘the number two?’ She said, ‘Yes.’

“The poor old marquis rose up, and clasping his hands, fell on his knees before Count Cagl——­ Bah!  I went by a different name then.  Vat’s in a name?  Dat vich ve call a Rosicrucian by any other name vil smell as sveet.  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ’I am old—­I am rich.  I have five hundred thousand livres of rentes in Picardy.  I have half as much in Artois.  I have two hundred and eighty thousand on the Grand Livre.  I am promised by my Sovereign a dukedom and his orders with a reversion to my heir.  I am a Grandee of Spain of the First Class, and Duke of Volovento.  Take my titles, my ready money, my life, my honor, everything I have in the world, but don’t ask the third question.’

“’Godefroid de Bouillon, Comte de Bechamel, Grandee of Spain and Prince of Volovento, in our Assembly what was the oath you swore?’” The old man writhed as he remembered its terrific purport.

“Though my heart was racked with agony, and I would have died, ay, cheerfully” (died, indeed, as if that were a penalty!) “to spare yonder lovely child a pang, I said to her calmly, ’Blanche de Bechamel, did Goby de Mouchy tell you secret number three?’

“She whispered a oui that was quite faint, faint and small.  But her poor father fell in convulsions at her feet.

“She died suddenly that night.  Did I not tell you those I love come to no good?  When General Bonaparte crossed the Saint Bernard, he saw in the convent an old monk with a white beard, wandering about the corridors, cheerful and rather stout, but mad—­mad as a March hare.  ‘General,’ I said to him, ‘did you ever see that face before?’ He had not.  He had not mingled much with the higher classes of our society before the Revolution.  I knew the poor old man well enough; he was the last of a noble race, and I loved his child.”

“And did she die by—?”

“Man! did I say so?  Do I whisper the secrets of the Vehmgericht?  I say she died that night:  and he—­he, the heartless, the villain, the betrayer,—­you saw him seated in yonder curiosity-shop, by yonder guillotine, with his scoundrelly head in his lap.