isclaim clean linen. Seventeen
long months has this slavery now endured, and during this time have I
had seventeen hundred temptations to pitch my career to the devil,
who invented it, and take the consequences, whatever they were; but
somehow--shall I own it?--the chances and changes of this strange time
have grown to assume to my mind the vicissitudes of a game. Even from
the humble place I occupied have I seen those that seemed fortune's
first favourites ruined, and many a one as poor and needy and friendless
as--as you or myself--rise to eminence, wealth, and power. This thought
has given such an interest to events that I am reluctant to quit the
table. What depressed me was that I was alone. Our old friends looked
coldly on me, for I was no longer "of them." Among the others, I knew
not whom to trust, for in my heart of hearts I have no faith in the
Revolution. Now I have watched you for months back. I knew your purpose,
the places you frequented, the themes that interested you; and I often
said to myself, that man "Gerard"--for so we called you in the police
roll--would suit me. He was a Royalist, like me; his sympathies are like
my own, so are his present necessities. I could, besides, give him much
information of value to his party. In a word, I wanted you, Fitzgerald,
and I felt that if I could not make _my own_ fortune, I could certainly
aid _yours_.'

There are men whose influence upon certain others is like a charm;
without any seeming effort--without apparently a care on the
subject--the words sink deep into the heart and carry persuasion with
them. Of these was De Noe. Poor and miserable as he was, the stamp of
gentleman was indelibly on him; and as Gerald sat and listened, the
other's opinions and views stole gradually into his mind with a power
scarcely conceivable.

The ranges of his knowledge, too, seemed marvellous. He knew not only
the theory of each pretender to popular favour, but the names and plans
of their opponents. His firm conviction was that Mirabeau not only
could, but would have saved the monarchy.

'And now?' cried Gerald, eager to hear what he had to predict.

'And now the cards are shuffling for a new deal, Gerald, but the
game will be a stormy one. The men who have convulsed France have not
received their wages; they are growing hourly more and more impatient,
and the end will be they 'll murder the paymasters.'

By a long but not wearisome line of argument he went on to show that