"I received your message," he said, in the curt manner of the man
whose life is in his hand, or is understood, in French theatrical
circles, to be thus uncomfortably situated. "The letter?"

"It is here, Monsieur Albert," replied the Abbe, who was
commonplace, and could not see himself as he wished others to see
him. There was only one Abbe Touvent, for morning or afternoon, for
church or fete, for the chateau or the cottage. There were a dozen
Albert de Chantonnays, fierce or tender, gay or sad, a poet or a
soldier--a light persifleur, who had passed through the mill, and
had emerged hard and shining, or a young man of soul, capable of
high ideals. To-night, he was the politician--the conspirator--
quick of eye, curt of speech.

He held out his hand for the letter.

"You are to read it, as Monsieur le Marquis instructs me, Monsieur
Albert," hazarded the Abbe, touching the breast pocket of his
soutane, where Monsieur de Gemosac's letter lay hidden, "to those
assembled."

"But, surely, I am to read it to myself first," was the retort; "or
else how can I give it proper value?"



CHAPTER XI. A BEGINNING