he empress. He is a poor Savoyard,
without name, without rank, without position, but with credit and
influence."

"A fireman?" cried the princess, with amazement.

"An old, ugly, deformed fellow, called by the other servants Gnome
because of his stubborn silence, his want of sociability, his rough
manner and voice, his caring for nothing but his service, which he
performs with great method. Every morning at six he enters her majesty's
apartment, makes the fire, throws back the curtain to admit the light,
arranges the chairs, and then withdraws without the least noise. All
this he does without committing the slightest indiscretion; always the
same; never lingering beyond his time--never leaving before. He is like
a clock that maintains always the same movement and sound. The empress,
accustomed for thirty years to see him enter daily her apartments, has
become used to his homeliness, and often in the kindness of her heart
enters into conversation with him. His answers are always laconic, in
a tone of perfect indifference--at times brusque, even harsh--but they
have a sensible and often a deep meaning. When the empress speaks with
him, he does not cease his work for a moment, and when he has finished
he does not remain a minute longer, but goes without asking if she
desires to continue the conversation. For thirty years he has had the
same duties and has fulfilled them in the same manner. He has never been
accused of a mistake--he has never been guilty of inquisitiveness or
intrigue. Thus the empress has great and firm confidence in him. She is
so convinced of his truth, disinterestedness, and probity, that he has
gained a sort of influence over her, and as she knows that he is to
be won neither by gold, flattery, promises of position and rank, she
constantly asks his opinion on matters of importance, and not seldom is
biassed by its strong, sensible tone."

"But if this man is so honest and disinterested, how are we to influence
him?"

"We must seek to win his heart and his head. He must become interested
in the fate of the unfortunate prisoner--he must become anxious for his
release. When we have done this much, we can question his self-interest
and offer him gold."

"Gold? This wonder of probity and truth is susceptible to bribes?"

"He never has, perhaps never may be. He himself has no desires, no
necessities; but he has one weakness--his daughter. She is a young and
lovely girl, whom he, in his dark distrust o