"What would the tinker's daughter think of her sweetheart? She has this morning peeped from her window five times. She has thrown me a flower and waved her hand—"
The fatalist remonstrated no further. Carrying his light equipage, he descended the rickety stairs. Naundorff had paid the bills. He might, therefore, depart, without seeking the host. His rickety form took the direction of the woods and was soon lost to view.
An hour later Giacinto sat before a succulent repast of stewed fish. A girl held to his lips a glass of foamy beer. Just then steps and the clanking of muskets sounded on the stairway. The officer heading the soldiers laid a hand on the Sicilian's shoulder, saying:
"Manacle his hands."
[Chapter X]
A DESCENDANT OF HENRI OF NAVARRE
In a human existence there may be a culminating moment,—a moment in which ambitions are realized and reality adapts itself to the dreamed-of ideal. The maneuvers of a subterranean state-craft during that epoch of incessant conspiracy had raised Lecazes to the pinnacle of glory. The Police was in its apogee, holding triumphantly in its hands the warp whose reverse side was espionage, provocation, indictment, torture, and whose obverse consisted of brilliant court ceremonials, stormy discussions in Councils and diplomatic strife in the royal coterie, wherein conservative and reactionary parties contended bitterly. Dominating the maneuvers from his cabinet, the genial Minister reigned,—the arbiter of the nation. He was the real master. He held the reins and guided the King with well dissembled strategy, as well as the other members of the royal family and the courtiers and officials,—all of whom complacently obeyed him, in their solicitude for the maintenance of the legitimate government.
Nevertheless, to use his own expression, "his life flowed between two walls of paper." He was accustomed to say that Paper was his worst enemy, adding, "You may rid yourself of a man but not of a piece of written paper." Excepting those retained as future shields, he tore all such sheets into bits, and compromising documents he burned.
It was the month of February. Lecazes sat in the same closet in which he had received the Duchess de Rousillon. A cloud was upon his face and an expression at once stealthy and rapacious, such as characterizes the countenances of all selfishly ambitious men, when alone. The cause of his preoccupation was a letter just received. It was anonymous and contained only these brief clauses: