since; it seemed as if both a long and a short time had elapsed; perhaps, the greatest difference he felt was that then he had been eager to leave Paris; now he was relieved to be back.  He strolled along under the glittering stars and the fast-sailing clouds, through ill-lighted streets and past deserted mansions whose owners were in voluntary exile beyond the Rhine, until he suddenly bethought himself of a little cafe in the Champs Elysees not far from the Demi-Lune du Cours de la Reine, where he and Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Morris had often gone together.  It occurred to him that he was both thirsty and a little tired, and that he would turn in there for something to drink and to see what might be happening.

Not much was happening, for a wonder.  The gusty March wind, sweeping through the gardens and under the lighted arcades, seemed to have swept away the usual throng of strollers in the Champs Elysees.  Even the cafe was deserted except for a small group in a far corner of the room, which Mr. Calvert scarce noticed as he passed in.  A cheerful fire was burning in an open grate, near which were set a screen and a settle.  Mr. Calvert ensconced himself comfortably in this cosy corner and, calling for a glass of wine, fell to reading the day’s copy of the Moniteur lying on the table beside him.  But his thoughts were other-where than with the account of the Assembly’s proceedings.  Although he was in Paris and near the woman he loved, he was as greatly in the dark as ever as to what course to pursue to protect her.  He knew not in what direction to turn, seeing that he knew not what danger threatened.  After he had seen St. Aulaire, pressing affairs had detained him in London three days before he could set out for Paris.  He knew not whether that worthy had arrived there before him or not—­whether he intended to return to Paris at all or to work through some secret agency.  A thousand vague plans for discovering these things floated through his mind and were rejected one after the other.  All were alike in one respect—­she must not know, if possible, that he was rendering her any service.  Though he realized that this danger hanging over her endeared her to him a thousand times more than ever, though the chivalry of his nature impelled him to serve her, he knew she did not love him, nor ever could, and all the pride and hardness of youth made him resolve to guard his secret more jealously than ever.  He had humbled himself once before her and she had treated him lightly, indifferently, contemptuously, and he had no mind to suffer a second humiliation.

Upon one thing he was resolved—­that he would see d’Azay in the morning and discover if he knew of any peril that threatened.  As this thought passed through his mind he suddenly heard d’Azay’s name distinctly pronounced from the other side of the room.  He laid the copy of the Moniteur, which he had been turning in his hands, quietly down upon the table and listened.  The voices from the corner, which had been low and confused on his entrance, were now louder and bolder.  Either the speakers did not know that they were not alone or else the wine had made them careless.