It was the day after the agreement with M. Bœhmer, and three days after the ball at the Opera. In the Rue¹ Montorgueil, at the end of a courtyard, was a high and narrow house. The ground floor was a kind of shop, and here lived a tolerably well-known journalist. The other stories were occupied by quiet people, who lived there for cheapness. M. Reteau, the journalist, published his paper weekly. It was issued on the day of which we speak; and when M. Reteau rose at eight o’clock, his servant brought him a copy, still wet from the press. He hastened to peruse² it, with the care which a tender father bestows³ on the virtues⁴ or failings of his offspring. When he had finished it:  
“Aldegonde,” said he to the old woman, “this is a capital number; have you read it?”
 
“Not yet; my soup is not finished.”
 
“It is excellent,” repeated the journalist.
 
“Yes,” said she; “but do you know what they say of it in the printing-office?”
 
“What?”
 
“That you will certainly be sent to the Bastile.”
 
“Aldegonde,” replied Reteau, calmly, “make me a good soup, and do not meddle⁵ with literature.”
 
“Always the same,” said she, “rash and imprudent.”
 
“I will buy you some buckles⁶ with what I make to-day. Have many copies been sold yet?”
 
“No, and I fear my buckles will be but poor. Do you remember the number against M. de Broglie? We sold one hundred before ten o’clock; therefore this cannot be as good.”
 
“Do you know the difference, Aldegonde? Now, instead of attacking an individual, I attack a body; and instead of a soldier, I attack a queen.”
 
“The queen! Oh, then there is no fear; the numbers will sell, and I shall have my buckles.”
 
“Some one rings,” said Reteau.
 
The old woman ran to the shop, and returned a minute after, triumphant⁷.
 
“One thousand copies!” said she, “there is an order!”
 
“In whose name?” asked Reteau, quickly.
 
“I do not know.”
 
“But I want to know; run and ask.”
 
“Oh, there is plenty of time; they cannot count a thousand copies in a minute.”
 
“Yes, but be quick; ask the servant—is it a servant?”
 
“It is a porter.”
 
“Well, ask him where he is to take them to.”
 
Aldegonde went, and the man replied that he was to take them to the Rue Neuve St. Gilles, to the house of the Count de Cagliostro.
 
The journalist jumped with delight, and ran to assist in counting off the numbers.
 
They were not long gone when there was another ring.
 
“Perhaps that is for another thousand copies,” cried Aldegonde. “As it is against the Austrian, every one will join in the chorus.”
 
“Hush⁸, hush, Aldegonde! do not speak so loud, but go and see who it is.”
 
Aldegonde opened the door to a man, who asked if he could speak to the editor of the paper.
 
“What do you want to say to him?” asked Aldegonde, rather suspiciously.
 
The man rattled⁹ some money in his pocket, and said:
 
“I come to pay for the thousand copies sent for by M. le Comte de Cagliostro.”
 
“Oh, come in!”
 
A young and handsome man, who had advanced just behind him, stopped him as he was about to shut the door, and followed him in.
 
Aldegonde ran to her master. “Come,” said she, “here is the money for the thousand copies.”
 
He went directly, and the man, taking out a small bag, paid down one hundred six-franc pieces.
 
Reteau counted them and gave a receipt, smiling graciously on the man, and said, “Tell the Count de Cagliostro that I shall always be at his orders, and that I can keep a secret.”
 
“There is no need,” replied the man; “M. de Cagliostro is independent. He does not believe in magnetism¹⁰, and wishes to make people laugh at M. Mesmer—that is all.”
 
“Good!” replied another voice; “we will see if we cannot turn the laugh against M. de Cagliostro;” and M. Reteau, turning, saw before him the young man we mentioned.
 
His glance was menacing; he had his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and a stick in his right.
 
“What can I do for you, sir?” said Reteau, trembling.
 
“You are M. Reteau?” asked the young man.
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“Journalist, and author of this article?” said the visitor, drawing the new number from his pocket.
 
“Not exactly the author, but the publisher,” said Reteau.
 
“Very well, that comes to the same thing; for if you had not the audacity¹¹ to write it, you have had the baseness to give it publicity¹². I say baseness, for, as I am a gentleman, I wish to keep within bounds even with you. If I expressed all I think, I should say that he who wrote this article is infamous¹³, and that he who published it is a villain¹⁴!”
 
“Monsieur!” said Reteau, growing pale.
 
“Now listen,” continued the young man; “you have received one payment in money, now you shall have another in caning¹⁵.”
 
“Oh!” cried Reteau, “we will see about that.”
 
“Yes, we will see,” said the young man, advancing towards him; but Reteau was used to these sort of affairs, and knew the conveniences of his own house. Turning quickly round, he gained a door which shut after him, and which opened into a passage leading to a gate, through which there was an exit into the Rue Vieux Augustins. Once there, he was safe; for in this gate the key was always left, and he could lock it behind him.
 
But this day was an unlucky one for the poor jou............