[THE EMISSARY]
Eight days had elapsed since the eventful meeting at the Comédie Française had revealed to M. de Brévannes that Paula Monti and the Princess de Hansfeld were one and the same person.
About ten o'clock in the morning, a fiacre, in which was M. de Brévannes, stopped at the door of a modest-looking dwelling, situate at the Rue des Martyrs—a street proverbially lonely and unfrequented.
The house at which M. de Brévannes alighted did not boast a concierge, that gentleman was therefore enabled to ascend the stairs unquestioned and uninterrupted. When arriving at the entrance to the apartments on the first floor, he rang the bell with an air and loudness that announced the approach of a master, his summons was immediately answered by a female, somewhat in years, plainly but neatly dressed. She had a red, pimpled face—a large pair of spectacles ornamented her nose, and in her hand she carried a capacious snuff-box.
We shall merely announce this female as Madame Grassot, the person employed by M. de Brévannes to look after the apartments occupied by him for the purpose of receiving poor Bertha's numerous rivals without fear of discovery.
"Well, Madame Grassot," said M. de Brévannes, as he entered into a pretty drawing-room, in which a cheerful fire was burning, "what kind of news have you got for me?"
"The very best of news, M. Charles," replied the old woman, taking off her glasses, and inspiring a powerful pinch of snuff.
"Good, are they?" rejoined M. de Brévannes, turning round quickly.
"They aire, M. Charles, excellent as can he. Does that any way surprise you?"
"By no means, after my experience of your cleverness in getting at any thing required of you. But what you had now to manage presented such real difficulties——"