tened as himself; in whom I had no difficulty in recognizing
Felix's wife.

"Why!" Madame Nicholas cried, her face falling. "This is not--who is
this? Who--" with increased vehemence--"is this baggage, I would like to
know? This shameless creature, that----"

"My dear," the secretary protested, spreading out his hands--fortunately
he had eyes only for his wife and did not see us--"this is one of your
ridiculous mistakes! It is, I assure you. This is the wife of a clerk
whom I dismissed to-day, and she has been with me begging me to
reinstate her husband. That is all. That is all, my dear, in truth it
is. You have made this dreadful outcry for nothing. I assure you----"

I heard no more, for, taking advantage of the obscurity of the hall, and
the preoccupation of the couple, I made for the door, and passing out
into the darkness, found myself in the embrace of the King; who, seizing
me about the neck, laughed on my shoulder until he cried, continually
adjuring me to laugh also, and ejaculating between the paroxysms, "Poor
du Hallot! Poor du Hallot!" With many things of the same nature, which
any one acquainted with court life may supply for himself.

I confess I did not on my part find it so easy to laugh: partly because
I am not of so gay a disposition as that great prince, and partly
because I cannot see the ludicrous side of events in which I myself take
part. But on the King assuring me that he would not betray the secret
even to La Varenne, I took comfort, and gradually reconciled myself to
an episode which, unlike the more serious events it now becomes my duty
to relate, had only one result, and that unimportant. I mean the
introduction to my service of the clerk Felix; who, proving worthy of
confidence, remained with me after the lamentable death of the King my
master, and is to-day one of those to whom I entrust the preparation of
these Memoirs.

PART III

KING TERROR

A DAUGHTER OF THE GIRONDE

In a room on the second floor of a house in the Rue Favart in Paris--a
large room scantily and untidily furnished--a man sat reading by the
light of an oil lamp. The hour was late, the night a July night in the
year 1794--year two of the Republic. The house already slumbered round
him; the sounds of Paris rose to his ears softened by night and
distance. Intent on his work, he looked up from time to time to make a
note; or, drawing the lamp a little nearer he trimmed its wick and set
it back. When t