by the imperious and incontrovertible dramatist of the human
family that this crabbed, vicious, antiquated marionette should wend
his way to the St. Charles on a particular evening. Since the day at
the races, the eccentric nobleman had been ill and confined to his
room, but now he was beginning to hobble around, and, immediately with
returning strength, sought diversion.

"Francois," he said, "what is there at the theater to-night?"

"Comic opera, my lord?"

The marquis made a grimace. "Comic opera outside of Paris!" he
exclaimed, with a shrug of the shoulders.

"A new actress makes her debut at the St. Charles."

"Let it be the debut, then! Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse
me."

"Yes, my lord."

"And, by the way, Francois, did you see anything of a large envelope,
a buff-colored envelope, I thought I left in my secretary?"

"No, my lord." But Francois became just a shade paler.

"It is strange," said the marquis, half to himself, "what could have
become of it! I destroyed other papers, but not that. You are sure,
Francois, you did not steal it?"

By this time the servant's knees began to tremble, and, had the
marquis' eyesight been better, he could not have failed to detect the
other's agitation. But the valet assumed a bold front, as he asked:

"Why should I have stolen it?"

"True, why?" grumbled the marquis. "It would be of no service to you.
No; you didn't take it. I believe you honest--in this case!"

"Thank you, my lord!"

"After all, what does it matter?" muttered the nobleman to himself.
"What's in a good name to-day--with traitors within and traitors
without? 'Tis love's labor lost to have protected it! We've fostered a
military nest of traitors. The scorpions will be faithful to nothing
but their own ends. They'll fight for any master."

Recalled to his purpose of attending the play by Francois' bringing
from the wardrobe sundry articles of attire, the marquis underwent an
elaborate toilet, recovering his good humor as this complicated
operation proceeded. Indeed, by the time it had reached a triumphant
end and the valet set the marquis before a mirror, the latter had
forgotten his dissatisfaction at the government in his pleasure with
himself.

"Too much excitement is dangerous, is it?" he mumbled. "I am afraid
there will be none at all. A stage-struck young woman; a doll-like
face, probably; a milk-and-water performance! Now, in the old days
actors were artists. Yes, artists!