I might call on all, and be as old as the Wandering Jew at the
last call. The cellar. Wine-cellar, of course,--that came by a natural
connection with butler,--but whose? There was one under my own abode;
certainly I would explore it. Meanwhile, let us see the entertainments
for Wednesday. The Prefect had a list of these. For some I found I had
cards; I determined to allot a fraction of time to as many as possible;
my friends in the Secret Service would divide the labor. Among others,
Madame de St. Cyr gave a dinner, and, as she had been in the affair,
I determined not to neglect her on this occasion, although having no
definite idea of what had been, or plan of what should be done. I
decided not to speak of this occurrence to Hay, since it might only
bring him off some trail that he had struck.
Having been provided with keys, early on the following evening I entered
the wine-cellar, and, concealed in an empty cask that would have held a
dozen of me, waited for something to turn up. Really, when I think of
myself, a diplomate, a courtier, a man-about-town, curled in a dusty,
musty wine-barrel, I am moved with vexation and laughter. Nothing,
however, turned up,--and at length I retired, baffled. The next night
came,--no news, no identification of my black-browed man, no success;
but I felt certain that something must transpire in that cellar. I don't
know why I had pitched upon that one in particular, but, at an earlier
hour than on the previous night, I again donned the cask.
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