More resolute brows, more determined words, more
unshrinking hearts, I had not met. In fact, I found myself in the centre
of a conspiracy, a society as vindictive as the Jacobins, as unknown and
terrible as the Marianne of to-day. I was thunderstruck, too, at the
countenances on which the light fell,--men the loyalest in estimation,
ministers and senators, millionnaires who had no reason for discontent,
dandies whose reason was supposed to be devoted to their tailors, poets
and artists of generous aspiration and suspected tendencies, and
one woman,--Delphine de St. Cyr. Their plans were brave, their
determination lofty, their conclave serious and fine; yet as slowly they
shut up their hopes and fears in the black masks, one man bent toward
the lantern to adjust his. When he lifted his face before concealing it,
I recognized him also. I had met him frequently at the Bureau of Police;
he was, I believe, Secretary of the Secret Service.
I had no sympathy with these people. I had liberty enough myself, I was
well enough satisfied with the world, I did not care to revolutionize
France; but my heart rebelled at the mockery, as this traitor and
spy, this creature of a system by which I gained my fame, showed his
revolting face and veiled it again. And Delphine, what had she to do
with them? One by one, as they entered, they withdrew, and I was left
alone again. But all this was not my diamond.
Another hour elapsed. Again the door opened, and remained ajar.
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