"I await your answer," said the emperor. "Who betrayed me to you for a thousand ducats?"
The banker raised his head as if making a difficult resolve. "Your majesty, that was an idle boast of mine to enhance the value of my news."
"Mere evasion, baron!" replied Joseph, angrily. "Even if you had not written the words in that letter, I should still ask of you, who it is that betrays my secrets?"
"No one, sire," replied Eskeles, uneasily. "I guessed it. Yes, yes,"—continued he, as though a happy idea had just struck him—"that is it—I guessed. Every one knows of your majesty's difficulty with Holland, and I might well guess that you would be glad to end this strife by accepting the ten millions, and so save your subjects from the horrors of war."
"You are not the truthful man I had supposed. There is no logic in your lies, Baron Eskeles. You might guess that I would accept the ten millions, but as you are not omniscient, you could not say positively that I had written my dispatches yesterday, and would sign them to-day. Your inventions are clumsy, baron, and I must say that they do you honor; for they prove that you have little experience in the art of lying. But the truth I must have, and as your lord and emperor, I command you to speak. For the third time, who betrayed my secrets to you?"
"Oh, sire, I swore not to betray him," said Eskeles, in a faltering voice.
"I absolve you from the oath."
"But the God of Israel cannot absolve me. I cannot speak the name of the man, but—your majesty can guess it."
He was silent for a few moments, then raising his head, the emperor saw that his face had become deadly pale. In a low, unsteady voice he continued: "Your majesty knows that I once had a daughter."
"HAD? You have a daughter, baron."