at courteous employer in the easy post he
now held. Lebeau, indeed, had the art, when he pleased, of charming
inferiors; his knowledge of mankind allowed him to distinguish
peculiarities in each individual, and flatter the amour propre by
deference to such eccentricities. Marc le Roux, the roughest of "red
caps," had a wife of whom he was very proud. He would have called the
empress Citoyenne Eugenie, but he always spoke of his wife as Madame.
Lebeau won his heart by always asking after Madame.

"You look tired, citizen," said the porter; "let me bring you a glass of
wine."

"Thank you, mon ami, no. Perhaps later, if I have time, after we break
up, to pay my respects to Madame."

The porter smiled, bowed, and retired muttering, "Nom d'un petit
bonhomme; il n'y a rien de tel que les belles manieres."

Left alone, Lebeau leaned his elbow on the table, resting his chin on
his hand, and gazing into the dim space,--for it was now, indeed, night,
and little light came through the grimy panes of the one window left
unclosed by shutters. He was musing deeply. This man was, in much, an
enigma to himself. Was he seeking to unriddle it? A strange compound
of contradictory elements. In his stormy youth there had been
lightning-like flashes of good instincts, of irregular honour, of
inconsistent generosity,--a puissant wild nature, with strong passions
of love and of hate, without fear, but not without shame. In other forms
of society that love of applause which had made him seek and exult in
the notoriety which he mistook for fame might have settled down into
some solid and useful ambition. He might have become great in the
world's eye, for at the service of his desires there were no ordinary
talents. Though too true a Parisian to be a severe student, still, on
the whole, he had acquired much general information, partly from books,
partly from varied commerce with mankind. He had the gift, both by
tongue and by pen, of expressing himself with force and warmth; time and
necessity had improved that gift. Coveting, during his brief career of
fashion, the distinctions which necessitate lavish expenditure, he had
been the most reckless of spendthrifts; but the neediness which follows
waste had never destroyed his original sense of personal honour.
Certainly Victor de Mauleon was not, at the date of his fall, a man to
whom the thought of accepting, much less of stealing, the jewels of
a woman who loved him could have occurred as a po