Baron Satan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the
treasures that he had accumulated with such an earnest devotion
and with so much perspicacity that the shrewdest merchant could
not say that the Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment.
He loved them--his bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a
miser; jealously, like a lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron
gates at either end of the bridge and at the entrance to the court
of honor are closed and barred. At the least touch on these
gates, electric bells will ring throughout the castle.

One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at
the gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the
Baron himself who partially opened the heavy portal. He
scrutinized the man as minutely as if he were a stranger, although
the honest face and twinkling eyes of the postman had been
familiar to the Baron for many years. The man laughed, as he
said:

"It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing
my cap and blouse."

"One can never tell," muttered the Baron.

The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:

"And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new."

"Something new?"