At this time the Emperor—for this was in the fall of ’62—was busy about his Mexican venture, and our legations were disturbed by vague rumors of efforts to combine the great powers in an agreement to bring about a perilous intervention in our affairs, which at home were going badly enough, with one disaster after another. No one at the legation knew how deep the Emperor was in the matter, but there was a chill of expectation in the air, and yet no distinct evidence of the trouble which was brewing.

It was, as I have said, an essential part of my work to frequent the best houses and in every way to learn what was the tone of feeling. It was, in fact, so hostile that it was now and then hard to avoid personal quarrels. In England it was, if possible, worse. Mr. Gladstone had spoken in public, and with warm praise of Mr. Jefferson Davis and the confederation. Roebuck had described our army as the “scum of Europe.” We had few important friends in England or France. The English premier was, to say the least, unfriendly, and Lord John Russell in their Foreign Office was not much better.

Meanwhile I came to know and like the Count le Moyne, who was a warm Napoleonist, and whom I had to see often, either on our impossible duel or on diplomatic business. During this familiar intercourse, I began to notice that he was distracted and, I thought, worried.

When I spoke of it to Merton, he said, “That’s the woman.” He had no reason to think so, but he was one of the rare men whose intuitions are apt to be correct. This business of the duel went on for a week.

To go back a little, I should have said that at the end of his two days’ leave Alphonse appeared and asked for three days more. He had no report to make, and went away again.

On the next day but one I was writing letters in my salon, and Merton was growling over the unpleasant news our papers were bringing us. Suddenly Alphonse appeared. He waited without a word until I said, “You have found her.”

“Yes; it was all that there is of simple. Monsieur had said she is an American—I went to the American church.”

Merton looked at me, smiling, as he remarked, “Like all the great things, it was simple.”

“I saw the lady come out after the morning service. When I began to follow her at a distance I saw that she was also followed by one of the best men of the police. I know him well. I also perceived that, as it seemed to me, the lady was uneasy, and, I think, aware that she was watched.”

Here Merton stopped him. “You are sure that is the same woman you saw in the carriage.”

“Monsieur, when once this lady has been seen, she is not to be forgotten.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the captain; “I told you so, Greville. But go on, Alphonse.”

“And cut it short,” said I, impatient.

Alphonse paused. “Circumstances, monsieur, oblige me to speak in some detail. I was two years in the service. Those who watch and follow madame are of the best. I know them. Therefore there is something serious.”

“And her name?” I asked.

“Mme. Bellegarde, Rue de St. Victor, No. 31—a small private hÔtel. I regret not to be able to report more fully, but I am well known as monsieur’s valet. To appear too curious would be unwise.”

I regarded my valet with increasing respect, while Merton ejaculated, “Damn such a country!” and I asked:

“Is that all?”

“Yes, monsieur; but circumstances—”

“Oh, that will do,” I said. “You may go.”

When alone with Merton, he said to me, “You must call on her.”

“No,” I said; “she is suspected of something and I, at least for a time, was taken to be an accomplice. That would never do.”

“You are right,” returned Merton, thoughtfully; “quite right. You must keep quiet. The matter, whatever it may be, is still unsettled; but I am resolute to find what this woman has done, and why she is watched like a suspected thief. I never was more curious.”

For a moment we considered the situation in silence. At last Merton said, “If this woman goes out into society, might you not chance to meet her?”

“Yes, but I never as yet have done so, and I remember faces well. I may meet her any day, or never meet her at all, but any direct approach we must give up. The more I think of it, the graver it appears. If it be a police affair, no letter reaches her unopened. Rest assured of that. She is like a fly in a cobweb. Chance may help us, but so far the luck has been against us.”

“No,” said Merton; “the game is not played out. There is something they don’t know, and they are, therefore, no better off than we.”

With this he went away and Alphonse returned. The man was plainly troubled. He said he could do no more, and that when he had made his report to the police that day he had been told to keep a closer watch on me and my letters. Might he show them a note or two?

I said, laughing: “Yes; there are two replies to invitations and a note to my tailor.”

That would do, and might he venture to say that monsieur would be well advised to keep out of the matter?

I thanked him, and there the thing stood over for several days longer.