s,' he shrieked; 'this
letter has been photographed!' B-r-r-r! I am not a coward, but I can
tell you that my heart stood perfectly still; I saw myself as dead
as Caesar, cut into mince-meat; and says I to myself, 'Fanfer--excuse
me--Dubois, my friend, you are lost, dead;' and I thought of Mme.
Alexandre."

M. Verduret was buried in thought, and paid no attention to the worthy
Joseph's analysis of his personal sensations.

"What happened next?" said Verduret after a few minutes.

"Why, he was just as frightened as I was, patron. The rascal did not
even dare to touch me. To be sure, I had taken the precaution to get out
of his reach; we talked with a large table between us. While wondering
what could have enabled him to discover the secret, I defended myself
with virtuous indignation. I said:

"'It cannot be; M. le marquis is mistaken. Who would dare touch his
papers?'

"Bast! Instead of listening to me, he flourished an open letter, and
said:

"'This letter has been photographed! here is proof of it!' and he
pointed to a little yellow spot on the paper, shrieking out, 'Look!
Smell! Smell it, you devil! It is--' I forget the name he called it, but
some acid used by photographers."

"I know, I know," said M. Verduret; "go on; what next?"

"Then, patron, we had a scene; what a scene! He ended by seizing me by
the throat, and shaking me like a plum-tree, saying he would shake me
until I told him who I was, what I knew, and where I came from. As if I
knew, myself! I was obliged to account for every minute of my time
since I had been in his service. The devil was worse than a judge of
instruction, in his questions. Then he sent for the hotel porter,
who had charge of the front door, and questioned him closely, but in
English, so that I could not understand. After a while, he cooled down,
and when the boy was gone, presented me with twenty francs, saying, 'I
am sorry I was so sharp with you; you are too stupid to have been guilty
of the offence.'"

"He said that, did he?"

"He used those very words to my face, patron."

"And you think he meant what he said?"

"Certainly I do."

The fat man smiled, and whistled a little tune expressive of contempt.

"If you think that," he said, "Clameran was right in his estimate of
your brilliancy."

It was easy to see that Joseph Dubois was anxious to hear his patron's
grounds for considering him stupid, but dared not ask.

"I suppose I am stupid, if you think so," said