“Our friend is great to-night,” whispered Monte-Christo; “and he may be greater to-morrow. If Louis Philippe yields, he may be prime minister—if firing begins, I have a shrewd notion he won’t be any where. Ah, Monsieur Albert! welcome from Cannes. We have been expecting you for some time, and you have arrived not a moment too soon!” The individual thus accosted was of middle height, advanced age, and very plainly dressed. He wore a rusty gray surtout, trousers of plaid check, and the lower part of his countenance was buried in the folds of a black cravat. The features were remarkable; and, somehow or other, I thought that I had seen them before. The small gray eyes rolled restlessly beneath their shaggy pent-house; the cheek-bones were remarkably prominent; a deep furrow was cut on either side of the mouth; and the nose, which was of singular conformation, seemed endowed with spontaneous life, and performed a series of extraordinary mechanical revolutions. Altogether, the appearance of the man impressed me with the idea of strong, ill-regulated energy, and of that restless activity which is emphatically the mother of mischief. Monsieur Albert did not seem very desirous of courting attention. He rather winked than replied to our host, threw a suspicious look at Bagsby, who was staring him in the face, honoured me with a survey, and then edged away into the crowd. I felt rather curious to know something more about him. “Pray, my dear Marquis,” said I, “who may this Monsieur Albert be?” “Albert! Is it possible that you do not—but I forget. I can only tell you, _mon cher_, that this Monsieur Albert is a very remarkable man, and will be heard of hereafter among the ranks of the people. You seem to suspect a mystery? Well, well! There are mysteries in all great dramas, such as that which is now going on around us; so, for the present, you must be content to know my friend as simple Albert, _ouvrier_.” “Hanged if I haven’t seen that fellow in the black choker before!” said Mr Bagsby; “or, at all events, I’ve seen his double. I say, Mr Dunshunner, who is the chap that came in just now?” “I really cannot tell, Mr Bagsby. Monte-Christo calls him simply Mr Albert, a workman.” “That’s their fraternity, I suppose! If I thought he was an operative, I’d be off in the twinkling of a billy-roller. But it’s all a hoax. Do you know, I think he’s very like a certain noble—” Here an aide-de-camp, booted and spurred, dashed into the apartment. “General! you are wanted immediately: the _émeute_ has begun, half Paris is rushing to arms, and they are singing the Marseillaise through the streets!” “Any thing else?” said the General, who, with inimitable _sang froid_, was sipping a tumbler of orgeat. “Guizot has resigned.” “Bravo!” cried the little gentleman above referred to—and he cut a caper that might have done credit to Vestris. “Bravo! there is some chance for capable men now.”