“So the Council of the Ancients assembles at night now?”
“When matters are urgent, yes.”
“And what does the decree say.”
“It transfers the legislative sessions to Saint-Cloud.”
Gohier felt the blow. He realized the advantage which Bonaparte’s daring genius might obtain by this isolation.
“And since when,” he asked Fouché, “is the minister of police transformed into a messenger of the Council of the Ancients?”
“That’s where you are mistaken, citizen president,” replied the ex-Conventional. “I am more than ever minister of police this morning, for I have come to inform you of an act which may have the most serious consequences.”
Not being as yet sure of how the conspiracy of the Rue de la Victoire would turn out, Fouché was not averse to keeping open a door for retreat at the Luxembourg. But Gohier, honest as he was, knew the man too well to be his dupe.
“You should have informed me of this decree yesterday, and not this morning; for in making the communication now you are scarcely in advance of the official communication I shall probably receive in a few moments.”
As he spoke, an usher opened the door and informed the president that a messenger from the Inspectors of the Council of the Ancients was there, and asked to make him a communication.