‘Come hither,’ said he, leading the way into the room from which he had emerged. It was a very small chamber, the most conspicuous ornaments of which were busts and pictures of the various celebrities of the Revolution. Some of these latter were framed ostentatiously, and one, occupying the post of honour above the chimney, at once attracted me, for in a glance I saw that it was a portrait of him who owned the pocket-book, and bore beneath it the name ‘Robespierre.’ ‘Now, sir, for your communication,’ said Boivin; ‘and take care that it is of sufficient importance to warrant the interview you have asked for.’ ‘I have no fears on that score,’ said I calmly, still scanning the features of the portrait, and satisfying myself of their identity. ‘Look at me, sir, and not at that picture,’ said Boivin. ‘And yet it is of M. Robespierre I have to speak,’ said I coolly. ‘How so--of M. Robespierre, boy? What is the meaning of this? If it be a snare--if this be a trick, you never leave this spot living,’ cried he, as he placed a massive hand on each of my shoulders and shook me violently. ‘I am not so easily to be terrified, citizen,’ said I; ‘nor have I any secret cause for fear, whatever you may have. My business is of another kind. This morning, in passing out to his carriage, he dropped his pocket-book, which I picked up. Its contents may well be of a kind that should not be read by other eyes than his own. My request is, then, that you will seal it up before me, and then send some one along with me, while I restore it to its owner.’ ‘Is this a snare--what secret mischief have we here?’ said Boivin, half aloud, as he wiped the cold drops of perspiration from his forehead. ‘Any mishap that follows will depend upon your refusal to do what I ask.’ ‘How so--I never refused it; you dare not tell M. Robespierre that I refused, sirrah?’ ‘I will tell him nothing that is untrue,’ said I calmly; for already a sense of power had gifted me with composure. ‘If M. Robespierre----’ [Illustration: 054] ‘Who speaks of me here?’ cried the identical personage, as he dashed hurriedly into the room, and then, not waiting for the reply, went on--’ You must send out your scouts on every side--I lost my pocket-book as I left this a while ago.’ ‘It is here, sir,’ said I, presenting it at once. ‘How--where was it found--in whose keeping has it been, boy?’ ‘In mine only; I took it from the ground the same moment that you dropped it, and then came here to place it in M. Boivin’s hands.’ ‘Who has taken care of it since that time?’ continued Robespierre, with a slow and sneering accentuation on every word. ‘The pocket-book has never left my possession since it quitted yours,’ was my reply. ‘Just so,’ broke in Boivin, now slowly recovering from his terror. ‘Of its contents I know nothing; nor have I sought to know anything.’ Robespierre looked at me as if to corroborate this statement, and I nodded my head in acquiescence. ‘Who is your father, boy?’