"I, you, all of us."
"I am none of you."
"But you are suspected of being, which is worse, much worse. Hold! I will sketch your position accurately. Let us enter this cabaret: it is kept by one of us." I followed him mechanically, and when we were seated in a dark corner, with some wine he called for before us, he continued: "I divide the sketch into three heads, historical, personal and political. There is a theory called Socialism—a people called Socialists, or Chartists, or Communists: they have different names in different countries. You may have heard of them in the past: you shall hear more of them in the future. They have a good organization and magnificent sympathies."
"But you called yourself an International."
"Just so. Socialism is the idea, Internationalism is its result. And now the historic is mingled with the personal. This society was lately meditating a coup: it was necessary to have meetings, and we had to devise a signal for rallying. I submitted one to the committee, which was unanimously adopted as simple yet efficient. My portrait—I was not then sufficiently known to make it suspicious—was to stand outside the door of the shop where you found it on the days when a meeting would be held. The old furniture-dealer is one of us: so is the concierge of No. 42 Notre Dame de Lorette. About a week ago the former came to me in distress, saying the portrait had been sold in his absence: he did not even know to whom. I told him it must be recovered at all hazards, as it would cause great inconvenience and loss of time to fix on another signal. The next day you were supposed to have it through the inquiries you made at No. 42, where you frightened the concierge nearly out of his wits, he taking you for a spy. He immediately informed his friend the furniture-dealer that the police were on our track, and when told of the sale of the picture said you must have it. However, they did not dare bring mere conjectures to me: they watched and waited. On the third day after you passed the shop: the dealer knew you through the concierge's description, inveigled you in, and easily obtained the information he wanted about the picture, but failed to gain possession of it. Then Sidonia took the matter in hand—Sidonia always helps us out of a difficulty—but her attempts also failed, though she discovered not only that you were no spy, but that you were yourself under suspicion. The police were following us closely: they had found out the use we made of the portrait, which rendered its recovery profitless to us. I resolved to drop both you and it. Shortly after I perceived that it would be necessary for us to leave the city, and you being implicated, Sidonia insisted on my warning you before we went, though, as you do not belong to us, I could see no use in it."
"So, then, it was not the dealer's boy who informed on me?"
"No: he gave a description calculated to mislead. I believe he has by listening gained some half truths, and thinks you are an International: it was for that cause he gave you the packet which brought you into trouble this evening. Ha! ha! ha!"
"How do you know I have been in trouble?"
"Through one of our spies in the police service: he was present at your examination, and was detailed to watch you to-night. He told me of your being at the theatre; hence my opportunity of speaking to you. I can say no more: the political part of my sketch you have had a specimen of at the police-station to-night; if you stay you are likely to see more. Believe me, they only liberated you so politely in order, by watching you, to find your companions. To-morrow, after we are gone, there will be discoveries made through this same agent of ours in their employ. As they are already on our track, we take this method to gain their confidence for our man. If you fancy another examination by the police, remain."
"But I am innocent!"