“I can, madame—give me pen, and paper like that. Why, lady, before now, Zamara has affixed the king’s name to a _lettre-de-cachet_ when his mistress had an enemy that she did not care to trouble old Louis about. She always kept plenty of blanks in her escritoir, and Zamara has a swift, steady hand. Will you trust him with the letter?” “Not to take from the house—I will not let it go out of my sight.” “Of course not; Zamara never expected that. Madame may sit by while he does his work.” “If you can—— Well, well, begin.” Louison laid pens and paper before the dwarf, and drawing her chair to the table where he placed himself, watched his dusky little hand as he spread the original letter before him and proceeded to duplicate it, smiling to himself as he watched her astonishment with sidelong glances now and then, while helping himself to ink. “You see, my lady, the countess could trust no one but Zamara. Even at the height of her fortune she needed some person who had the learning and knowledge which she lacked terribly; for ignorance, you know, madame, comes with low birth.” Zamara stopped suddenly, for a hot red flashed over Louison’s face; and the dwarf remembered that her origin was quite as low as that of Madame Du Berry; but he recovered himself instantly. “It is not often that a woman who rises has the genius to lift her mind with her good fortune. When that happens, it is always because she keeps with the people, disdaining to fritter her greatness away among aristocrats, who laugh at her always when they dare. This was the case with my lady, the countess, who depended only on her beauty and the old king’s favor.” “And now,” said Louison, with a sneer, “both the old king and her beauty, if she ever had any, which I do not believe, are dead and gone.” “Dead and gone,” repeated Zamara, shaking his head. “It is only genius that lives.” The little wretch made a low bow, with one hand upon his heart as he spoke, and Louison fairly blushed with pleasure, for such flattery was both new and delightful to her, even from that miserable dwarf. “Now go on with this work,” she said, smiling broadly in return for his grimaces. “I am impatient to see it done.” Zamara took up the pen again and applied himself to his task with avidity. It was a long time since his natural talent for evil had been called into action, and he enjoyed this new indulgence with wonderful zest. Louison watched his little withered hand as it crept, like a mouse, across the paper, and congratulated herself warmly on the good fortune that had cast this strange creature in her way. At last the letter was finished, and Zamara laid it side by side with the original. Louison examined it with an exclamation of pleasure. It seemed to her impossible that Mirabeau himself could detect the forgery. “But the seal,” she said. “How are we to obtain that?”