eled watch, which he
examined for a moment before thrusting it into his pocket. A snuff
box, set with diamonds, and several rings followed. Francois with the
same deliberation opened a drawer and took out a small box which he
tried to open, and, failing, forced the lid with the poker. At this,
my lord opened his eyes, and, in a weak voice, for his strength had
nearly deserted him, demanded:

"What are you doing, Francois?"

"Robbing you, my lord," was the slow and dignified response.

The marquis' eyes gleamed with rage. He endeavored to call out, but
his voice failed him and he fell back, trembling and overcome.

"Thief! Ingrate!" he hissed, hoarsely.

"I beg you not to excite yourself, my lord," said the stately valet.
"You are already very weak and it will hasten the end."

"Is this the way you repay me?"

"My lord will not need these things soon."

"Have you no gratitude?" stammered the marquis, whose physical and
mental condition was truly pitiable.

"Gratitude for having been called 'idiot,' 'dog,' and 'blockhead'
nearly all my life! I am somewhat lacking in that quality, I fear."

"Is there no shame in you?"

"Shame?" repeated Francois, as he proceeded to ransack another drawer.
"There might have been before I went into your service, my lord. Yes;
once I felt shame for you. It was years ago, in London, when you
deserted your beautiful wife. When I saw how she worshiped you and
what a noble woman she was, I confess I felt ashamed that I served one
of the greatest blackguards in Europe--"

"Oh, you scoundrel--" exclaimed the marquis, his face becoming a
ghastly hue.

"Be calm, my lord. You really are in need of all your energy. For
years I have submitted to your shameful service. I have been at the
beck and call of one of the greatest roues and villains in France.
Years of such association would somewhat soil any nature. Another
thing, my lord, I must tell you, since you and I are settling our last
accounts. For years I have endured your miserable King Louis Philippe.
A king? Bah! He fled from the back door! A coward, who shaved his
whiskers for a disguise."

"No more, rascal!"

"Rascal yourself, you worn-out, driveling breath of corruption! It is
so pleasant to exercise a gentleman's privilege of invective! Ah, here
is the purse. _Au revoir_, my lord. A pleasant dissolution!"

But by this time the marquis was speechless, and Francois, taking the
valise in hand, deferentially left the room. He