Let the spy, Schulmeister, the adventuress Leonore de Simonie; be buried, and new people, new names, rise from the budding seeds of the half million.  But now farewell, my daughter, my beautiful Leonie.  I must begin the work, must summon all my assistants and subordinates, and assign their tasks, for the next few days will bring much work.  It is not enough for me to inform the emperor of the existence of a conspiracy, and the plan of the accomplices, but I must be able to give him convincing and irrefutable proofs of this plot, that he may not deem it a mere invention which I have devised in order to be able to claim a large reward.  No, the emperor must see that I am telling him the truth, so I must not let the affair explode too soon.  I must first know the names and residences of all the conspirators, investigate the details of the whole enterprise, and hold in my hand the threads of the entire web in order to be sure that all the spiders who have labored at it will be caught in their own net.”

“Do so, father,” cried Leonore joyously.  “I will leave them all to you—­all these poor spiders of the conspiracy.  I feel no pity for them.  Let them die, let them suffer, what do I care!  I, too, have suffered, oh, and what mortal anguish!  Yes, let them die and rot; I shall at last be happy, free, and beloved.  Oh, God be praised that the man whom I love is not entangled in this conspiracy, that I could disclose the whole plot, mention the names of all the conspirators, without fear of compromising him.  Yes, I thank Thee, my God, that Kolbielsky has no share in this scheme.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE REVELATION.

The fatal Thursday had passed, Wednesday had come, yet Leonore had received no tidings from her father.  For three days she had not seen him, had had no message from him.

But it was not this alone that disturbed and tortured Leonore.  She had also had no news from Kolbielsky, though the week which he had named as the necessary duration of their parting had expired the day before.  He had said: 

“My week of exile will begin from this hour, and the first festival will be when I again clasp you in my arms.”

This week had expired yesterday, and Kolbielsky had not come to clasp his loved one in his arms again.  She had expected him all through the day, all through the night, and the cause of her present deep anxiety was not solicitude about her father, the desire to learn the result of the conspiracy discovered; no, it was only the longing for him, the terrible dread that some accident might have befallen Kolbielsky.

Why did he not come, since he had so positively promised to return at the end of a week?  Was it really only a coincidence that the day which he had fixed for his return was the selfsame one on which the conspiracy formed by Napoleon’s foes was to break forth?