re."

"And your ferocious courage?" said the duke in a mocking voice.

"It is not that I have lost it."

"What has become of it then?"

"Monseigneur, I am under his roof."

"Yes; but in the conservatory you are not."

"Could you not show him to me first, that I might accustom myself to his
presence, that I may be inspired by the hatred I bear him, for I do not
know how to find him in this crowd?"

"Just now he was near you."

Gaston shuddered.

"Near me?" said he.

"As near as I am," replied the duke, gravely.

"I will go to the conservatory, monseigneur."

"Go then."

"Yet a moment, monseigneur, that I may recover myself."

"Very well, you know the conservatory is beyond that gallery; stay, the
doors are closed."

"Did you not say that with this card the servants would open them to
me?"

"Yes; but it would be better to open them yourself--a servant might wait
for your exit. If you are thus agitated before you strike the blow, what
will it be afterward? Then the regent probably will not fall without
defending himself--without a cry; they will all run to him, you will be
arrested, and adieu your hope of the future. Think of Helene, who waits
for you."

It is impossible to describe what was passing in Gaston's heart during
this speech. The duke, however, watched its effect upon his countenance.

"Well," said Gaston, "what shall I do? advise me."

"When you are at the door of the conservatory, the one which opens on to
the gallery turning to the left--do you know?"

"Yes."

"Under the lock you will find a carved button--push it, and the door
will open, unless it be fastened within. But the regent, who has no
suspicion, will not take this precaution. I have been there twenty times
for a private audience. If he be not there, wait for him. You will know
him, if there, by the black domino and the golden bee."

"Yes, yes; I know," said Gaston; not knowing, however, what he said.

"I do not reckon much on you this evening," replied the duke.

"Ah! monseigneur, the moment approaches which will change my past life
into a doubtful future, perhaps of shame, at least of remorse."

"Remorse!" replied the duke. "When we perform an action which we believe
to be just, and commanded by conscience, we do not feel remorse. Do you
doubt the sanctity of your cause?"

"No, monseigneur, but it is easy for you to speak thus. You have the
idea--I, the execution. You are the head, but I am the arm. Believe me,
mo