On the Trail.
Evening has fallen over the city, and the busy turmoil of the streets
had ceased; the laborer had repaired to his family, the wealthy had
gone to their suburban villas, and licentious youth had sought the
amusements over which darkness draws its veil. Politicians,
newsmongers, and travellers made the cafe salons ring with their
animated discussions. The policy of the Prime Minister, the
probabilities of war, the royal sports of Versailles, and daring deeds
of crime gathered from the police reports were inexhaustive topics for
debate.
In one of the popular cafes there was a small gathering of men
threatening vengeance on the delinquent Cassier; they had more or less
suffered from his robbery, and they listened with avidity to every
rumor that might lead to the probability of his capture. Amongst them
there was an aged man of grayish beard, who was particularly loud and
zealous in his condemnation of the dishonest banker. He railed against
the Government, which, he said, was priest-ridden under the whip of
Mazarin; the imbecility of the police; and the apathy of the citizens,
who bore so peaceably such glaring acts of injustice and imposition.
He poured out a volume of calumny against the priesthood, and blasphemed
so as to cast a chill of terror through his less impious hearers.
He was suddenly stopped in his harangue by the entrance of a stranger
in the coffee-room. He was a tall, thin man, wrapped in an over-cloak;
he paced majestically across the room, and took a seat opposite the
old man, who had suddenly become silent and was busily occupied reading
the criminal bulletin. Over the edges of his paper the old man took
a furtive glance at the stranger; their eyes met; a recognition
followed, but as silent and as deep as with the criminal and the Masonic
judge.
The old man rang the bell, and called for writing materials. He hastily
scribbled a few words, closed, sealed the letter, then bade the waiter
take it to his eldest son, who had retired to his apartments. He
immediately took his hat and went out.
"Who is that old man?" asked the tall stranger, rising and advancing
excitedly towards the waiter.
"That's Senor Pereira from Cadiz," retorted the waiter.
"Senor Pereira from Cadiz!" repeated the stranger. "No," he continued
emphatically; "he is Senor Cassier from Paris."
"Cassier!" was muttered by the astounded debaters who had listened to
the vituperative philippics of the Portuguese merchant.
"Cassier!" was echoed from the furthest end of the salon, where some
quiet and peaceful citizens were sipping their coffee and rum apart
from the stormy politics of the centre-table.
Whilst an animated conversation was carried on two young lads came
running down-stairs and rushed into the street through the front door.
"Who are those young men?" asked again the stranger of the waiter.
"They are the sons of Senor Pereira," was the answer.
"The sons of Pereira! They are the daughters of Cassier!" said the
stranger in a loud voice, who had now become the hero of the room and
had penetrated a deep and clever plot.
He ran to the street, but the fugitives had disappeared in the darkness;
their gentle tread was not heard on the pavement, and no observer was
near to indicate the course they had taken. The whole scheme of
Cassier's bold disguise flashed with unerring conviction on the
stranger's mind--the voice, the eye, the gait were Cassier's. He was
familiar with the family, and in the hurried glance he got of the
youths rushing by the saloon door he thought he recognized the contour
of Alvira's beautiful face. He hastened to communicate his startling
discovery to the Superintendent of the Police, and the city was once
more in a state of excitement.