CHAPTER XXV. THE SUPPER AT “BEAUVILLIERS’S”
“Where to?,” asked the coachman, as we entered the calèche
“Beauvilliers,” said the marquis, throwing himself back in his seat, and remaining for some minutes silent.
At last, as if suddenly recollecting that we were strangers to each other, he said, “You know Beauvilliers, of course?”
“No,” replied I, with hesitation; “I really have not any acquaintance.”
“Parbleu,” said he, laughing, “you ought at least to have his friendship. He is the most celebrated restaurateur of this or any other age; no one has carried the great art of the cuisine to a higher perfection, and his cellars are unequalled in Paris. But you shall pronounce for yourself.”
“Unhappily my judgment is of little value. Do you forget that the diet roll of the Polytechnique is a bad school for gastronomy?”
“But a glorious preparation for it,” interrupted he. “How delightful must be the enjoyment to the unsophisticated palate of those first impressions which a carpe à la Chambord, a pheasant truffé, a dish of ortolans à la Provengale, inspire! But here we are. Our party is a small one, – an old préfet of the South, an abbé, a secretary of the Russian embassy, and ourselves.”
This information he gave me as we mounted a narrow and winding stair, dimly lighted by a single lamp. On reaching the landing, however, a waiter stood in readiness to usher us into a small apartment decorated with all the luxury of gold and plate glass, so profusely employed in the interior of all cafés. The guests already mentioned were there, and evidently awaiting our arrival with no small impatience.
“As usual, Henri,” said the old man, whom I guessed to be the préfet, – “as usual, an hour behind your appointment.”
“Forgive him. Monsieur,” said abbé, with a simper. “The fascinations of a Court – ”
The grimace the old man made at this last word threw the whole party into a roar of laughter, which only ceased by the marquis presenting me in all form to each of his friends.
“À table, à table, for Heaven’s sake!” cried the préfet, ringing the bell, and bustling about the room with a fidgety impatience.
This was, however, unneeded; for in less than five minutes the supper made its appearance, and we took our places at the board.
The encomiums pronounced as each dish came and went satisfied me that the feast was unexceptionable. As for myself, I ate away, only conscious that I had never been so regaled before, and wondering within me how far ingenuity had been exercised to produce the endless variety that appeared at table. The wine, too, circulated freely; and Champagne, Bordeaux, and Chambertin followed one another in succession, as the different meats indicated the peculiar vintage. In the conversation I could take no part, – it was entirely gastronomic; and no man ever existed more ignorant of the seasons that promised well for truffles, or the state of the atmosphere that threatened acidity to the vines.
“Well, Henri,” said the préfet, when the dessert made its appearance, and the time for concluding the gourmand dissertation seemed arrived, – “well! and what news from the Tuileries?”
“Nothing – absolutely nothing,” said he, carelessly, – “the same people; the same topics; the eternal game of tric-trac with old Madame d’Angerton; Denon tormenting some new victim with a mummy or a map of Egypt; Madame Lefebvre relating camp anecdotes – ”
“Ah, she is delightful!” interrupted the prefet.
“So thinks your chief, at least, Askoff,” said De Beauvais, turning to the Russian. “He sat on the sofa beside her for a good hour and a half.”
“Who sat near him on the other side?” slyly asked the other.
“On the other side? I forget: no, I remember it was Monsieur de Talleyrand and Madame Bonaparte. And, now I think of it, he must have overheard what they said.”
“Is it true, then, that Bonaparte insulted the English ambassador at the reception? Askoff heard it as he left the Rue St. Honoré.”
“Perfectly true. The scene was a most outrageous one; and Lord Whitworth retired, declaring to Talleyrand – at least, so they say – that without an apology being made, he would abstain from any future visits at the Tuileries.”
“But what is to come of it? – tell me that. What is to be the result?”
“Pardieu! I know not. A reconciliation to-morrow; an article in the ‘Moniteur;’ a dinner at the Court; and then another rupture, and another article.”
“Or a war,” said the Russian, looking cautiously about, to see if his opinion met any advocacy.
“What say you to that, mon ami?” said De Beauvais, turning to me. “Glad enough, I suppose, you ‘ll be to win your epaulettes as colonel.”
“That, too, is on the cards,” said the abbé, sipping his glass quietly. “One can credit anything these times.”
“Even the Catholic religion, Abbé,” said De Beauvais, laughing.
“Or the Restoration,” replied the abbé, with a half-malicious look at the préfet, which seemed greatly to amuse the Russian.
“Or the Restoration!” repeated the préfet, solemnly, after him, – “or the Restoration!” And then filling his glass to the brim, he drained it to the bottom.
“It is a hussar corps you are appointed to?” said De Beauvais, hastily turning towards me, as if anxious to engage my attention.
“Yes; the huitieme,” said I: “do you know them?”
“No; I have few acquaintances in the army.”
“His father, sir,” said the préfet, with a voice of considerable emphasis, “was an old garde du corps in those times when the sword was only worn by gentlemen.”
“So much the worse for the army,” whispered the abbé, in an undertone, that was sufficiently audible to the rest to cause an outbreak of laughter.
“And when,” continued the préfet, undisturbed by the interruption, “birth had its privileges.”
“Among the rest, that of being the first beheaded,” murmured the inexorable abbé.
“Were truffles dear before the Revolution, préfet?” said De Beauvais, with a half-impertinent air of simplicity.
“No, sir; nothing was dear save the King’s favor.”
“Which could also be had for paying for,” quoth the abbé.
“The ‘Moniteur’ of this evening, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering with the paper, whose publication had been delayed some two hours beyond the usual period.
“Ah, let us see what we have here,” said De Beauvais, opening the journal and reading aloud: “‘Greneral Espinasse is appointed to the command of the fourth corps, stationed at Lille; and Major-General Lannes to the fortress of Montreil, vacant by – ’ No matter, – here it is. ‘Does the English government suppose that France is one of her Indian possessions, without the means to declare her wrongs or the power to avenge them? Can they believe that rights are not reciprocal, and that the observance of one contracting party involves nothing on the part of the other?’”
“There, there, De Beauvais; don’t worry us with that tiresome nonsense.”
“‘Or,’ continued the marquis, still reading aloud, ‘do they presume to say that we shall issue no commercial instructions to our agents abroad lest English susceptibility should be wounded by any prospect of increased advantages to our trade?’”
“Our trade!” echoed the préfet, with a most contemptuous intonation on the word.
“Ah, for those good old times, when there was none!” said the abbé, with such a semblance of honest sincerity as drew an approving smile from the old man.
“Hear this, Préfet,” said De Beauvais: “‘From the times of Colbert to the present’ – what think you? the allusion right royal, is it not? – ‘From the times of Colbert our negotiations have been always conducted in this manner.’”
“Sir, I beseech you read no more of that intolerable nonsense.”
“And here,” continued the marquis, “follows a special invocation of the benediction of Heaven on the just efforts which France is called on to make, to repress the insolent aggression of England. Abbé, this concerns you.”
“Of course,” said he, meekly. “I am quite prepared to pray for the party in power; if Heaven but leaves them there, I must conclude they deserve it.”
A doubtful look, as if he but half understood him, was the only reply the old préfet made to this speech; at which the laughter of the others could no longer be repressed, and burst forth most heartily.
“But let us read on. Whose style is this, think you? ‘France possessed within her dominion every nation from the North Sea to the Adriatic. And how did she employ her power? – in restoring to Batavia self-government; in giving liberty to Switzerland; and in ceding Venice to Austria, while the troops at the very gates of Vienna are halted and repass the Rhine once more. Are these the evidences of ambition? Are these the signs of that overweening lust of territory with which England dares to reproach us? And if such passions prevailed, what was easier than to have indulged them? Was not Italy our own? Were not Batavia, Switzerland, Portugal, all ours? But no, peace was the desire of the nation; peace at any cost. The colony of St. Domingo, that immense territory, was not conceived a sacrifice too great to secure such a blessing.’”
“Pardieu! De Beauvais, I can bear it no longer.”
“You must let me give you the reverse of the medal. Hear now what England has done.”
“He writes well, at least for the taste of newspaper readers,” said the abbé, musingly; “but still he only understands the pen as he does the sword, – it must be a weapon of attack.”
“Who is the writer, then?” said I, in a half-whisper.
“Who! – can you doubt it? – Bonaparte himself. What other man in France would venture to pronounce so authoritatively on the prospects and the intentions of the nation?”
“Or who,” said the abbé, in his dry manner, “could speak with such accuracy of the ‘Illustrious and Magnanimous Chief ‘that rules her destinies?”
“It is growing late,” said the préfet, with the air of one who took no pleasure in the conversation, “and I start for Rouen to-morrow morning.”
“Come, come, préfet! one bumper before we part,” said Be Beauvais. “Something has put you out of temper this evening; yet I think I know a toast can restore you to good-humor again.”
The old man lifted his hand with a gesture of caution, while he suddenly directed a look towards me.
“No, no; don’t be afraid,” said De Beauvais, laughing; “I think you ‘ll acquit me of any rashness. Fill up, then; and here let us drink to one in the old palace of the Tuileries who at this moment can bring us back in memory to the most glorious days of our country.”
“Pardieu! that must be the First Consul, I suppose,” whispered the abbé, to the prefet, who dashed his glass with such violence on the table as to smash it in a hundred pieces.
“See what comes of impatience!” cried De Beauvais, laughing. “And now you have not wherewithal to pledge my fair cousin the ‘Rose of Provence.’”
“The Rose of Provence!” said each in turn; while, excited by the wine, of which I had drunk freely, and carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, I re-echoed the words in such a tone as drew every eye upon me.
“Ah! you know my cousin, then?” said De Beauvais, – looking at me with a strange mixture of curiosity and astonishment.
“No,” said I; “I have seen her – I saw her this evening at the Palace.”
“Well, I must present you,” said he, smiling good-day naturedly.
Before I could mutter my acknowledgment, the party had risen, and were taking leave of each other for the night.
“I shall see you soon again, Burke,” said De Beauvais, as he pressed my hand warmly; “and now, adieu!”
With that we parted; and I took my way back towards the Polytechnique, my mind full of strange incidents of this the most eventful night in my quiet and monotonous existence.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE TWO VISITS
Amid all the stirring duties of the next day, amid all the excitement of a new position, my mind recurred continually to the events of the previous twenty-four hours: now dwelling on the soiree at the Palace, – the unaccustomed splendor, the rank, the beauty I had witnessed; now on that eventful moment I spent behind the screen; then on my strange rencontre with my antagonist, and that still stranger supper that followed it.
It was not, indeed, without certain misgivings, which I could neither account for nor dismiss from my mind, that I reflected on the character and conversation of my new associates. The tone of levity in which they dared to speak of him whose name was to me something bordering on idolatry, – the liberty with which they ventured to canvass his measures and his opinions, even to ridiculing them, – were so many puzzles to my mind; and I half reproached myself for having tamely listened to language which now, as I thought over it, seemed to demand my notice. Totally ignorant of all political intrigue, – unconscious that any party did or could exist in France save that of the First Consul himself, – I could find no solution to the enigma, and at last began to think that I had been exaggerating to myself the words I had heard, and permitting my ignorance to weigh with me, where with more knowledge I should have seen nothing reprehensible. And if the spirit in which they discussed the acts of Bonaparte differed from what I had been accustomed to, might it not rather proceed from my own want of acquaintance with the usages of society, than any deficiency in attachment on their sides? The préfet was, of course, as an officer of the Government, no mean judge of what became him; the abbé, too, as a man of education and in holy orders, was equally unlikely to express unbecoming opinions; the Russian scarcely spoke at all; and as for De Beauvais, his careless and headlong impetuosity made me feel easy on his score. And so I reasoned myself into the conviction that it was only the ordinary bearing and everyday habit of society to speak thus openly of one who in the narrower limits of our little world was deemed something to worship.
Shall I own what then I could scarcely have confessed to myself, that the few words De Beauvais spoke at parting, – the avowed cousinship with her they called “La Rose de Provence,” – did much to induce this conviction on my mind? while his promise to present me was a pledge I could not possibly believe consistent with any but right loyal thoughts and honest doctrines. Still, I would have given anything for one friend to advise with, – one faithful counsellor to aid me. But again was I alone in the world; and save the short and not over-flattering reception of my colonel, I had neither seen nor spoken to one of my new corps.
That evening I joined my regiment, and took up my quarters in the barracks, where already the rumor of important political events had reached the officers, and they stood in groups discussing the chances of a war, or listening to the “Moniteur,” which was read out by one of the party. What a strange thrill it sent through me to think that I was privy to the deepest secret of that important step on which the peace of Europe was resting, – that I had heard the very words as they fell from the lips of him on whom the destiny of millions then depended! With what a different interpretation to me came those passages in the Government journal which breathed of peace, and spoke of painful sacrifices to avoid a war, for which already his very soul was thirsting! and how to my young heart did that passion for glory exalt him who could throw all into the scale! The proud position he occupied, – the mighty chief of a mighty nation; the adulation in which he daily lived; the gorgeous splendor of a Court no country in Europe equalled, – all these (and more, his future destiny) did lie set upon the cast for the great game his manly spirit gloried in.
In such thoughts as these I lived as in a world of my own. Companionship I had none; my brother officers, with few exceptions, had risen from the ranks, and were of that class which felt no pleasure save in the coarse amusements of the barrack-room or the vulgar jests of the service. The better classes lived studiously apart from these, and made no approaches to intimacy with any newly joined officer with whose family and connections they were unacquainted; and I, from my change of country, stood thus alone, unacknowledged and unknown. At first this isolation pained and grieved me, but gradually it became less irksome; and when at length they who had at first avoided and shunned my intimacy showed themselves disposed to know me, my pride, which before would have been gratified by such an acknowledgment, was now wounded, and I coolly declined their advances.
Some weeks passed in this manner, during which I never saw or heard of De Beauvais, and at length began to feel somewhat offended at the suddenness with which he seemed to drop an intimacy begun at his own desire; when one evening, as I had returned to my barrack-room after parade, I heard a knock at my door. I rose and opened it, when, to my surprise, I beheld De Beauvais before me. He was much thinner than when I last saw him, and his dress and appearance all betokened far less of care and attention.
“Are these your quarters?” said he, entering and throwing a cautious look about. “Are you alone here?”
“Yes,” said I; “perfectly.”
“You expect no one?”
“Not any,” said I, again, still more surprised at the agitation of his manner, and the evident degree of anxiety he labored under.
“Thank Heaven!” said he, drawing a deep sigh as he threw himself on my little camp-bed, and covered his face with his hands.
Seeing that something weighed heavily on him, I half feared to interfere with the current of his thoughts, and merely drew my chair and sat down beside him.
“I say, Burke, mon cher, have you any wine? Let me have a glass or two, for save some galette, and that not the best either, I have tasted nothing these last twenty-four hours.”
I soon set before him the contents of my humble larder, and in a few moments he rallied a good deal, and looking up with a smile said, —
“I think you have been cultivating your education as gourmand since I saw you; that pasty is worthy our friend in the Palais Royal. Well, and how have you been since we met?”
“Let me rather ask yow,” said I, “You are not looking so well as the last time I saw you. Have you been ill?”
“Ill! no, not ill. Yet I can’t say so; for I have suffered a good deal, too. No, my friend; I have had much to harass and distress me. I have been travelling, too, long distances and weary ones, – met some disappointments; and altogether the world has not gone so well with me as I think it ought. And now of you, – what of yourself?”
“Alas!” said I, “if you have met much to annoy, I have only lived a dull life of daily monotony. If it has had little to distress, there is fully as little to cheer; and I half suspect the fine illusions I used to picture to myself of a soldier’s career had very little connection with reality.”
As De Beauvais seemed to listen with more attention than such a theme would naturally call for, I gradually was drawn into a picture of my barrack life, in which I dwelt at length on my own solitary position, and the want of that companionship which formed the chief charm of my schoolboy life. To all this he paid a marked attention, – now questioning me on some unexplained point; now agreeing with me in what I said by a word or a gesture.
“And do you know, Burke,” said he, interrupting me in my description of those whose early coldness of manner had chilled my first advances, – “and do you know,” said he, impetuously, “who these aristocrats are? The sons of honest bourgeois of Paris. Their fathers are worthy men of the Rue Vivienne or the Palais, – excellent people, I ‘ve no doubt, but very far better judges of point lace and pâté, de Périgord than disputed precedence and armorial quarterings. Far better the others, – the humble soldiers of fortune, whose highest pride is their own daring, their own undaunted heroism. Well, well,” added he, after a pause, “I must get you away from this; I can manage it in a day or two. You shall be sent down to Versailles with a detachment.”
I could not help starting with surprise at these words, and through all the pleasure they gave me my astonishment was still predominant.
“I see you are amazed at what I say; but it is not so wonderful as you think. My cousin has only to hint to Madame Bonaparte, who is at present there, and the thing is done.”
I blushed deeply as I thought of the agency through which my wishes were to meet accomplishment, and turned away to hide my embarrassment.
“By the bye, I have not presented you to her yet. I ‘ve had no opportunity; but now I shall do so at once.”
“Pray, tell me your cousin’s name,” said I, anxious to say anything to conceal my confusion. “I ‘ve only heard her name called ‘La Rose de Provence.’”
“Yes, that was a silly fancy of Madame la Consulesse, because Marie is Provengale, But her name is De Rochfort, – at least her mother’s name; for, by another caprice, she was forbidden by Bonaparte to bear her father’s name. But this is rather a sore topic with me; let us change it. How did you like my friends the other evening? The abb, is agreeable, is he not?”
“Yes,” said I, hesitating somewhat; “but I am so unaccustomed to hear General Bonaparte discussed so freely – ”
“That absurd Polytechnique!” interrupted De Beauvais. “How many a fine fellow has it spoiled with its ridiculous notions and foolish prejudices!”
“Come, come,” said I; “you must not call prejudices the attachment which I, and all who wear an epaulette, feel in our glorious chief. There, there! don’t laugh, or you ‘ll provoke me; for if I, an alien, feel this, how should you, who are a Frenchman born, sympathize with such a proud career?”
“If you talk of sympathy, Burke, let me ask you. Have you ever heard speak of certain old families of these realms who have been driven forth and expatriated to seek a home among strangers, – themselves the descendants of the fairest chivalry of our land, the proud scions of Saint Louis? and has your sympathy never strayed across sea to mingle with their sorrows?” His voice trembled as he spoke, and a large tear filled his eye and tracked its way along his cheek, as the last word vibrated on his tongue; and then, as if suddenly remembering how far he had been carried away by momentary impulse, he added, in an altered voice, “But what have we to do with these things? Our road is yet to be travelled by either of us, – yours a fair path enough, if it only fulfil its early promise. The fortunate fellow that can win his grade while yet a schoolboy – ”
“How came you to know – ”
“Oh! I know more than that, Burke; and, believe me, if my foolish conduct the first day we met had led to anything disastrous, I should have passed a life of sorrow for it ever after. But we shall have time enough to talk over all these matters in the green alleys of Versailles, where I hope to see you before a week be over. Great events may happen ere long, too. Burke, you don’t know it; but I can tell you, a war with England is at this moment on the eve of declaration.”
“Perhaps,” said I, somewhat piqued by the tone of superiority in which he had spoken for some minutes, and anxious to assume for myself a position which, I forgot, conferred no credit by the manner of its attainment, “I know more of that than you are aware of.”
“Oh,” replied he, carelessly, “the gossip of a mess is but little to be relied on. The sabreurs will always tell you that the order to march is given.”
“I don’t mean that,” said I, haughtily. “My information has a higher source, the highest of all, – Greneral Bonaparte himself!”
“How! what! Bonaparte himself!”
“Listen to me,” said I; and hurried on by a foolish vanity, and a strange desire I cannot explain to make a confidant in what I felt to be a secret too weighty for my own bosom, I told him all that I had overheard when seated behind the screen in the salon at the Tuileries.
“You heard this, – you, yourself?” cried he, as his eyes flashed, and he grasped my arm with an eager grip.
“Yes, with my own ears I heard it,” said I, half trembling at the disclosure I made, and ready to give all I possessed to recall my words.
“My friend, my dear friend,” said he, impetuously, “you must hesitate no longer; be one of us.”
I started at the words, and growing pale with agitation as the very thought of the importance of what I had related flashed across me, I stammered out, “Take care what you propose to me, De Beauvais. I do not, I cannot, fathom your meaning now; but if I thought that anything like treachery to the First Consul – that anything traitorous to the great cause of liberty for which he has fought and conquered – was meditated, I ‘d go forthwith and tell him, word for word, all I have spoken now, even though the confession might, as it would, humble me forever, and destroy all my future hope of advancement.”
“And be well laughed at for your pains, foolish boy!” said he, throwing himself back in his chair, and bursting out into a fit of laughter. “No, no, Burke; you must not do anything half so ridiculous, or my pretty cousin could never look at you without a smile ever after. And à propos, of that, when shall I present you? That splendid jacket, and all that finery of dolman there, will make sad work of her poor heart.”
I blushed deeply at the silly impetuosity I had betrayed myself into, and muttered some equally silly apology for it. Still, young as I was, I could perceive that my words made no common impression on him, and would have given my best blood to recall them.
“Do you know, De Beauvais,” said I, affecting as much of coolness as I could, “do you know, I half regret having told you this. The manner in which I heard this conversation – though, as you will see, quite involuntary on my part – should have prevented my ever having repeated it; and now the only reparation I can make is to wait on my colonel, explain the whole circumstance, and ask his advice.”
“In plain words, to make public what at present is only confided to a friend. Well, you think the phrase too strong for one you have seen but twice, – the first time not exactly on terms such as warrant the phrase. But come, if you can’t trust me, I ‘ll see if I can’t trust you.”
He drew at these words a roll of paper from his pocket, and was proceeding to open it on the table when a violent knocking was heard at my door.
“What ‘s that? who can it be?” said he, starting up, and growing pale as death.
The look of terror in his face appalled me; and I stood, not able to reply, or even move towards the door, when the knocking was repeated much louder, and I heard my name called out. Pointing to a closet which led from the room, and without speaking a word, I walked forward and unlocked the door. A tall man, wrapped in a blue cloak, and wearing a cocked hat covered with oilskin, stood before me, accompanied by a sergeant of my troop.
“This is the sous-lieutenant, sir,” said the sergeant, touching his cap.
“That will do,” replied the other; “you may leave us now.” Then turning to me he added, “May I have the favor of a few minutes’ conversation with you, Mr. Burke? I am Monsieur Gisquet, chef de police of the department.”
A trembling ran through me at the words, and I stammered out something scarce audible in reply. Monsieur Gisquet followed me as I led the way into my room, which already had been deserted by De Beauvais; and casting a quick glance around, he leisurely took off his hat and cloak and drew a chair towards the table.
“Are we alone, sir?” said he, in a measured tone of voice, while his eye fell with a peculiar meaning on a chair which stood opposite to mine, on the opposite side of the stove.
“I had a friend with me when you knocked,” I muttered, in a broken and uncertain accent; “but perhaps – ”
Before I could finish my sentence the door of the cabinet slowly opened, and De Beauvais appeared, but so metamorphosed I could scarcely recognize him; for, short as the interval was, he had put on my old uniform of the Polytechnique, which, from our similarity in height, fitted him perfectly.
“All safe, Tom,” said he, stealing out, with an easy smile on his countenance. “Par Saint Denis! I thought it was old Legrange himself come to look for me. Ah, Monsieur, how d’ ye do? You have given me a rare fright tonight. I came to spend the day with my friend here, and, as ill luck would have it, have outstayed my time. The école closes at nine, so that I ‘m in for a week’s arrest at least.”
“A cool confession this, sir, to a minister of police!” said Gisquet, sternly, while his dark eyes surveyed the speaker from head to foot.
“Not when that minister is called Gisquet,” said he, readily, and bowing courteously as he spoke.
“You know me, then?” said the other, still peering at him with a sharp look.
“Only from your likeness to a little boy in my company,” said he, “Henri Gisquet. A fine little fellow he is, and one of the cleverest in the school.”
“You are right, sir; he is my son,” said the minister, as a pleased smile passed over his swarthy features. “Come, I think I must get you safe through your dilemma. Take this; the officer of the night will be satisfied with the explanation, and Monsieur Legrange will not hear of it.”
So saying, he seized a pen, and writing a few lines rapidly on a piece of paper, he folded it note fashion, and handed it to De Beauvais.
“A handsome ring, sir!” said he, suddenly, and holding the fingers within his own; “a very costly one, too.”
“Yes, sir,” said De Beauvais, blushing scarlet. “A cousin of mine – ”
“Ha, ha! an amourette, too. Well, well, young gentleman! no need of further confessions; lose no more time here. Bonsoir.”
“Adieu, Burke,” said De Beauvais, shaking my hand with a peculiar pressure.
“Adieu, Monsieur Gisquet. This order will pass me through the barrack, won’t it?”
“Yes; to be sure. You need fear no interference with my people either, go where you will this evening.”
“Thanks, sir, once more,” said he, and departed.
“Now for our business, Mr. Burke,” said the minister, opening his packet of papers before him, and commencing to con over its contents. “I shall ask you a few questions, to which you will please to reply with all the accuracy you can command, remembering that you are liable to be called on to verify any statement hereafter on oath. With whom did you speak on the evening of the 2d of May, at the soiree of Madame Bonaparte?”