“That you report everything to me. A little thing, but it is all I ask in exchange for your miserable life.” “But about what?” “About your mistress; about Count Mirabeau; and, above all, about the queen.” “The queen! I—I know nothing about her. How should I?” “How should you, little craven? Who is it that carries letters from Mirabeau to the Austrian?” “It is not Zamara! Upon my life, upon my soul, it is not Zamara!” “But you know who does take them?” “No; I am not trusted so far. She doubts me—me, who stood by her when all her friends fell off, who went with her into exile among the detestable English, where the skies forever weep rain, and one is chilled to the soul. All this Zamara did, yet the mistress will not trust him.” “But he can find out?” “Yes; Zamara knows how to do that.” “Well, listen. Some one takes letters from Count Mirabeau to the queen, and they pass through the hands of your mistress.” “No, no; she would not be permitted. She never sees the queen—never!” “Still, it is through her these letters pass. I know it from words that fell from the count—careless words, which he fancied I did not heed. That much I know—you must find out the rest.” “If I do, what then?” “Why, that paltry life of yours will be safe. I have the power—I have the will. No one, great or small, shall touch it.” “And my mistress?” “Do not trouble your little head about her. She professes to belong to the people—she, who came from its dregs. Let her prove herself their friend, or be proven their enemy. You have nothing to do with that.” “Ah! but she has been kind to me—only that sometimes she suspects.” “Not so kind as I will be, if you prove sharp and faithful.” The dwarf bent low and kissed the hem of that woman’s garment, in token of submission, as he had often kissed the almost regal robes of the countess, his mistress. “I shall remember that madame has the power to kill,” he said, abjectly. “A safe way of insuring honesty,” laughed the woman. “I am not afraid that you will venture to trifle with your own life.” The dwarf took his cap from the floor, where it had fallen in the first tremor of his fear, and cast a furtive look over his shoulder, longing to escape from that dreadful presence; but Louison seemed to find pleasure in tormenting him. “_Mon Dieu!_ how pale you look through all that blackness!” she said. “There is wine. What you have to do requires more courage. Drink, drink!” The dwarf seized upon the goblet which Louison filled, and drank off wine enough to have intoxicated a strong man before he relinquished his hold on the glass. “That is good wine,” he said, drawing a deep breath, and kindling into something like courage. “One does not fear so much with that in his veins. Now will madame, or mademoiselle, I do not know which she is, inform me exactly what she wishes of Zamara?”