hat I am successful."

Mascarin stopped opposite to a _cafe_ in the Faubourg Saint Honore.

"Wait here for me, doctor," said he, "while I make a little call. If all
is all right; I will come for you again; then I will see the Count, and
twenty minutes later do you go to the house and ask for the Countess."

The clock struck four as the worthy confederates parted, and Mascarin
continued his way along the Faubourg Saint Honore, and again stopped
before a public house, which he entered, the master of which, Father
Canon, was so well known in the neighborhood that he had not thought it
worth while to have his name painted over the door. He did not profess
to serve his best wine to casual customers, but for regular frequenters
of his house, chiefly the servants of noble families, he kept a better
brand of wine. Mascarin's respectable appearance inclined the landlord
to step forward. Among Frenchmen, who are always full of gayety, a
serious exterior is ever an excellent passport.

"What can I do for you, sir?" asked he with great politeness.

"Can I see Florestan?"

"In Count de Mussidan's service, I believe?"

"Just so; I have an appointment with him here."

"He is downstairs in the band-room," replied the landlord. "I will send
for him."

"Don't trouble; I will go down," and, without waiting for permission,
Mascarin descended some steps that apparently led to a cellar.

"It appears to me," murmured Father Canon, "that I have seen this cove's
face before."

Mascarin pushed open a door at the bottom of the flight of stairs, and
a strange and appalling noise issued from within (but this neither
surprised nor alarmed him), and entered a vaulted room arranged like a
_cafe_, with seats and tables, filled with customers. In the centre, two
men, in their shirt sleeves, with crimson faces, were performing upon
horns; while an old man, with leather gaiters, buttoning to the knee,
and a broad leather belt, was whistling the air the hornplayers were
executing. As Mascarin politely took off his hat, the performers ceased,
and the old man discontinued his whistling, while a well-built young
fellow, with pumps and stockings, and wearing a fashionable mustache,
exclaimed,--

"Aha, it is that good old Mascarin. I was expecting you; will you
drink?"

Without waiting for further invitation Mascarin helped himself from a
bottle that stood near.

"Did Father Canon tell you that I was here?" asked the young man, who
was the Flo