inspired me with the tenderest
feelings, and I kissed her hands with respectful fervour, saying, "You
know, Esther, dear, that my word is passed at Paris. Certainly, Manon is
not to be compared to you; but for all that I gave my promise to her poor
mother, and I must keep it."

A sigh escaped from Esther, and her head fell upon her breast: but what
could I do? I could not teach her any other way of consulting the oracle
than the method she understood as well as I: my superiority over her only
consisting in my greater craft and more extensive experience.

Early one morning, two or three days later, a man was announced as
wanting to see me. He called himself an officer, but his name was
perfectly unknown to me. I sent down to say that I could not see him, and
as soon as my Spaniard went out I locked my door. What had happened
already had made me suspicious, and I did not care to see any more
gentlemen alone. The two scoundrels who had robbed me had eluded all the
snares of the police, and Piccolomini was not to be found; but I knew a
good many of the gang were still in Amsterdam, and I thought it well to
be on my guard.

Some time after, Le Duc came in with a letter written in bad Italian,
saying that it had been given him by an officer who was waiting for an
answer. I opened it, and recognized the name I had heard a short while
ago. The writer said we knew each other, but that he could only give his
true name with his own lips, and that he had important information to
give me.

I told Le Duc to shew him in, and to stay by the door. I saw enter a
well-made man of about forty, dressed in the uniform of an officer of I
do not know what army, and bearing on his countenance all the marks of an
escaped gallows'-bird.

"What can I do for you, sir?" said I, as soon as he entered.

"Sir, we knew each other at Cerigo, sixteen or seventeen years ago, and I
am delighted to have an opportunity of renewing the acquaintance."

I knew that I had spent but a few minutes at Cerigo, on my way to
Constantinople, and concluded that my visitor must be one of the
unfortunate wretches to whom I gave alms.

"Are you the man," I said, "who told me that you were the son of a Count
Peccini, of Padua, although there is no such count in Padua at all?"

"I congratulate you on your excellent memory," said he, coolly, "I am
that very individual."

"Well, what do you want with me now?"

"I can't divulge my business in the presence of your