In a human existence there may be a culminating moment,--a moment in which ambitions are realized and reality adapts itself to the dreamed-of ideal. The maneuvers of a subterranean state-craft during that epoch of incessant conspiracy had raised Lecazes to the pinnacle of glory. The Police was in its apogee, holding triumphantly in its hands the warp whose reverse side was espionage, provocation, indictment, torture, and whose obverse consisted of brilliant court ceremonials, stormy discussions in Councils and diplomatic strife in the royal coterie, wherein conservative and reactionary parties contended bitterly. Dominating the maneuvers from his cabinet, the genial Minister reigned,--the arbiter of the nation. He was the real master. He held the reins and guided the King with well dissembled strategy, as well as the other members of the royal family and the courtiers and officials,--all of whom complacently obeyed him, in their solicitude for the maintenance of the legitimate government. Nevertheless, to use his own expression, "his life flowed between two walls of paper." He was accustomed to say that Paper was his worst enemy, adding, "You may rid yourself of a man but not of a piece of written paper." Excepting those retained as future shields, he tore all such sheets into bits, and compromising documents he burned. It was the month of February. Lecazes sat in the same closet in which he had received the Duchess de Rousillon. A cloud was upon his face and an expression at once stealthy and rapacious, such as characterizes the countenances of all selfishly ambitious men, when alone. The cause of his preoccupation was a letter just received. It was anonymous and contained only these brief clauses: "Naundorff is despoiled, de Brezé murdered, Giacinto executed. They shall be avenged. Guard the trunk; as for the limbs they are despicable." Such communications seldom troubled the Minister, accustomed as he was to the language of charlatans. He usually destroyed the epistles, smiling a Machiavellian smile. But this letter troubled him, for it was not the first of the series; others had periodically preceded it, giving no clue to the writer and seeming to have for object a warning to the intended victim. "There is not a thread of the net which I may not snap at will," he soliloquized. "They are not indeed thinking of avenging de Brezé or Naundorff--nor even that insignificant Carbonaro whom I have had to execute. I did not do so as retaliation for Volpetti's death. However much I miss him, I can not replace him. He was my hands and feet. But pshaw! in state-craft we waive vengeance and travel direct to our ends,--the Carbonari to the demolishing of the throne, I to the sustaining of it. To sustain it I have wrought miracles. Had I not obtained the papers which have cost me Volpetti, alas for the dynasty! The happy exit must console me for the loss of my best man."