business-like character, and not at all to be
compared with mine. "I must have been a
fool," thought I, "to think of pleasing a
Frenchwoman, by being ready to wait for her
any length of time." Before I went to bed
that night I had despatched another letter to
the address she had indicated. This was her
reply:—

"Sir—I assure you that your idea of my
brother's character is quite a mistake. He is
no tyrant. If I condemn myself, at present,
to almost total seclusion, it is because I feel
it to be necessary for his sake. I may confide
to you the fact, that his present occupation is
such that we cannot admit strangers here—
not even a servant. Judge, then, how necessary
to him is the presence of one upon whose
prudence he knows he can depend. Adieu.
Be discreet and patient.

"MARIE STUART LA ROCHE."

Here was a tantalising mystery, indeed!
Her brother's occupation required a beautiful
and accomplished girl to shut herself up
(except going to church once a week) for six
months, never so much as showing her face
at the window, save when the blind was
down at night. What honest business could
explain that? Was that monster—as far
removed from her in mind as in body—
persuading an inexperienced girl to aid him
in some dishonourable pursuits; bringing her,
perhaps, to ruin with him? Was he a
midnight robber or assassin! I thought of his
herculean form, and of some mysterious
murders lately committed in the streets of the
city, and pictured him stealing up the dark
staircase at night—like Cardillac the jeweller
—fresh from some horrible deed. This must
be it: unless he was a coiner. Yes; he might
be a coiner; he was a coiner; I had no doubt
of it. Till, lying in bed awake, it struck me
that he was, perhaps, a political conspirator.
This would account for the desire for privacy.
He had papers about. He was making an
infernal machine. It would not do for his
sister to expose her beauty to the world, and
attract strangers to watch about there. Otherwise,
what was there particularly dangerous
in my being in the porter's lodge? This
milder hypothesis seemed to me a sudden
inspiration. "She is in hourly danger," I
said, "Dark plots are forming around her;
barrels of gunpowder are under her bed.
Her brother, with horrible imprecations,
forbids her to pry into their contents. She
sees a dreadful machine with rows of iron
barrels, and is told to ask no questions. Her
brother mysteriously implores her to keep
at home, and like a noble, self-sacrificing
creature, she renounces all for him."

My suspicions became more and more
painful; but I did not dare to hint them to
her. In spite of her injunction, I watched in
the cathedral unobserved, and saw her again,
dressed exactly as before. I thought she
looked paler, and her face haunted me. The
next night, I watched till I saw the door of
the porter's lodge open, and I glided in and
crept up the stairs. I thought, if I could
listen at the door a moment, and perhaps hear
her voice, which I had never heard yet, it
would be a relief. There was a lamp on the
staircase, but it was nearly burnt out, and I
groped my way up in the dark. I listened at
her door, but could hear nothing. A light
came through the keyhole, and a curiosity—
which was perhaps my secret motive in
coming there—prompted me to look through.
But I was disappointed. I could see no one,
nor anything more suspicious than a fireplace
and a picture on the wall.

I was turning my eye from side to side, to
get as wide a range of sight over the room as
possible, and was wholly absorbed in my
expectation of seeing something remarkable,
when I felt myself suddenly grasped by both
arms from behind.

"I know you," said a voice, "though we
are in the dark. I am tempted to throw you
headlong down the well of the staircase."

"Let go," I said, struggling.

"Scoundrel! spy!" he exclaimed.

"Let go!" I repeated, still striving in his
terrible grip, " and I will explain my conduct
frankly."

"I know your purpose," he replied, giving
me a sudden swing round that hurled me
against the opposite wall, and taking my
place at the door. "I suspected you the first
time I saw you. You have been prying here
before."

Scarcely waiting to hear his last words, I
felt so exasperated with his violence, that
I rushed at him, and struck him several times
with my fist. Immediately after, the blows of
a stick began to fall upon my back and
shoulders, like the strokes of two blacksmiths
beating at the same piece of iron on
an anvil. Warding off the blows with my
arm, I rushed at him again; but a second
time he hurled me against the wall, and suddenly
opening the door, he entered and closed
it in my face, turning the key.

My position was embarrassing. To batter
the door would have been as ridiculous as to
have been caught listening there. I resolved
to retreat, and meditate some scheme for
vengeance at leisure. I walked about the
streets for some time, and thought of the
stanzas in Corneille's tragedy, in which the
Cid describes the conflict of love and honour,
when called upon to avenge the insults of
Don Gomez. From this, it will be supposed
that my bruises were not of a serious
character: but my humiliation was great.
I would have given an Aldine copy of
Erasmus, with the signature of Montaigne
upon the title page (if I had possessed a copy
of Erasmus with that valuable addition), to
have known whether his sister was in her
room during our fracas. I passed by the
window and saw a light there, but no shadow.
I determined to go home and write a long