“So, so! He is writing to her! He finds something in that milk-and-water face to admire. I thought his choice was something more than a wish to satisfy these clamorous fish women who call themselves wives and mothers, as if there lay some great merit in being one or the other. Bah! how I hate their pretensions! But when it comes to that strength is every thing in these days, and the market women are strong.” Thus the woman reflected as she held the unopened letter in her hand. Zamara stood apart, regarding her earnestly. He had brought the letter from craven fear of the woman who had threatened him, and was anxious to propitiate her further, if the occasion presented itself. “Is madam in doubt how to open it safely? Zamara can tell her; he learned that art at the Grand Trianon, years ago. It gave him many secrets worth knowing.” Louison started out of her angry thought, and tossed the letter toward him. “Open it, then, and see that those impish hands leave no mark. It may be that the girl will get her letter.” Zamara went to the window, turned his back on Louison, and in a minute came forward with the letter open in his hand. It contained an inclosure, carefully sealed, and addressed, to “Her Royal Highness, the Queen.” Again Louison recognized Mirabeau’s handwriting, and the hot blood rushed in torrents to her face. “It is the dagger that shall pierce his traitor heart,” cried the woman, fiercely. “Open this! Open this, carefully! The wax that bears his arms, the aristocrat, must not be broken. Ha, ha! I have him now!” Louison reached forth her hand as she spoke, clutching and unclutching her fingers like a bird of prey, eager for his food. “There it is, without a scratch of the seal, or a break in the paper,” said the dwarf, fawning upon her. “Nothing is easier than to fasten it again.” Louison did not hear him; she was searching the contents of that letter too keenly for any thought beyond it. Four closely-written pages were devoured by her eyes, which flashed and burned beneath the lashes that drooped over them as she read. Once, twice, three times she went over each line, reading more carefully at the last. Then she began a fourth perusal, but paused in the midst, holding the paper firmly, and biting her lips till they burned blood-red under her white teeth. “What can I do,” she muttered, “to make the evidence complete? That Austrian woman must have the letter, and answer it.” “That can be done,” said Zamara, softly, for he entered into the evil spirit of the woman with the keen zest of a rogue who had been long out of practice. “But how?” “Let the pretty demoiselle carry a letter, not that, but something so like it that no one will ever guess it is not the same.” “But who can make anything like it?”