“No, sir; I cannot permit it. I do not know you; and it is against all orders to admit strangers in La Masque's absence.”
“Bah! you old simpleton!” remarked Sir Norman, losing his customary respect for old age in his impatience, “I have La Masque's order for what I am about to do. Get along with you directly, will you? Show me to her private room, and no nonsense!”
He tapped his sword-hilt significantly as he spoke, and that argument proved irresistible. Grumbling, in low tones, the anatomy stalked up-stairs; and the other followed, with very different feelings from those with which he had mounted that staircase last. His guide paused in the hall above, with his hand on the latch of a door.
“This is her private room, is it!” demanded Sir Norman.
“Yes.”
“Just stand aside, then, and let me pass.”
The room he entered was small, simply furnished, and seemed to answer as bed-chamber and study, all in one. There was a writing-table under a window, covered with books, and he glanced at them with some curiosity. They were classics, Greek and Latin, and other little known tongues—perhaps Sanscrit and Chaldaic, French belles lettres, novels, and poetry, and a few rare old English books. There were no papers, however, and those were what he was in search of; so spying a drawer in the table, he pulled it hastily open. The sight that met his eyes fairly dazzled him. It was full of jewels of incomparable beauty and value, strewn as carelessly about as if they were valueless. The blaze of gems at the midnight court seemed to him as nothing compared with the Golconda, the Valley of Diamonds shooting forth sparks of rainbow-fire before him now. Around one magnificent diamond necklace was entwined a scrap of paper, on which was written:
“The family jewels of the Montmorencis. To be given to my sisters when I am dead.”
That settled their destiny. All this blaze of diamonds, rubies, and opals were Leoline's; and with the energetic rapidity characteristic of our young friend that morning, he swept them out on the table, and resumed his search for papers. No document was there to reward his search, but the brief one twined round the necklace; and he was about giving up in despair, when a small brass slide in one corner caught his eye. Instantly he was at it, trying it every way, shoving it out and in, and up and down, until at last it yielded to his touch, disclosing an inner drawer, full of papers and parchments. One glance showed them to be what he was in search of—proofs of Leoline and Hubert's identity, with the will of the marquis, their father, and numerous other documents relative to his wealth and estates. These precious manuscripts he rolled together in a bundle, and placed carefully in his doublet, and then seizing a beautifully-wrought brass casket, that stood beneath the table, he swept the jewels in, secured it, and strapped it to his belt. This brisk and important little affair being over, he arose to go, and in turning, saw the skeleton porter standing in the door-way, looking on in speechless dismay.
“It's all right my ancient friend!” observed Sir Norman, gravely. “These papers must go before the king, and these jewels to their proper owner.”