w the
counsels I am going to give you."

"I have listened to you, father, with attention and respect. Speak freely
and advise me; what you have said has not only moved me, but has almost
frightened me. I promise to do as you tell me if it is nothing against
honour or the light of reason."

"Very good. A feeling of charity will prevent your doing anything to
compromise me, whatever may be the end of the affair. You will not speak
of me to anyone, or say either that you know me or do not know me?"

"I swear to you I will not on my faith as a Christian. But speak, I
entreat you. Your long preface has made me burn with impatience."

"This day, before noon, go by yourself to---- Square, No.---, on the
second floor, and ring at the bell on your left. Tell the person who
opens the door that you want to speak to Madame. You will be taken to her
room without any difficulty; I am sure your name will not be asked, but
if they do ask you, give an imaginary name. When you are face to face
with the woman, beg her to hear you, and ask her for her secret, and to
inspire confidence put a sequin or two in her hand. She is poor, and I am
sure that your generosity will make her your friend. She will shut her
door, and tell you to say on.

"You must then look grave, and tell her that you are not going to leave
her house before she gives you the little bottle that a servant brought
her yesterday with a note. If she resists, remain firm, but make no
noise; do not let her leave the room or call anybody. Finally, tell her
that you will give her double the money she may lose by giving you the
bottle and all that depends on it. Remember these words: and all that
depends on it. She will do whatever you want. It will not cost you much,
but even if it did, your life is worth more than all the gold of Peru. I
can say no more, but before I go, promise me that you will follow my
advice."

"Yes, reverend father, I will follow the inspiration of the angel who led
you here."

"May God give you His blessing."

When the good priest went out I did not feel at all disposed to laugh.
Reason, certainly, bade me despise the warning, but my inherent
superstition was too strong for reason. Besides, I liked the Capuchin. He
looked like a good man, and I felt bound by the promise I had given him.
He had persuaded me, and my reason told me that a man should never go
against his persuasion; in fine, I had made up my mind. I took the piece
of paper on which I