“The First Consul,” said Roland.
“God—” ejaculated the Englishman, swallowing the last words of the national oath.
“He spoke to me just before I left for the Vendée of my sister’s marriage,” continued Roland; “saying that it no longer concerned my mother and myself, for he would take charge of it.”
“Then,” said Sir John, “I am lost.”
“Why so?”
“The First Consul does not like the English.”
“Say rather that the English do not like the First Consul.”
“But who will present my wishes to the First Consul?”
“I will.”
“And will you speak of them as agreeable to yourself?”