“What is it?”
“The Marshal has just been shot at.” For one moment consternation reigns; the young men look at each other. Then Lappara stretches himself in his chair and asks languidly:
“How about your asphalt affair, old man—how is it getting on?”
“Vai! the asphalt—I have something much better than that.”
Not at all surprised that his news of the attempted assassination of the Marshal had produced so little effect, he now proceeded to unfold to them his new scheme. A wonderful thing, and so simple! It was to scoop the prizes of one hundred and twenty thousand francs that the Swiss governments offers yearly at the Federal shooting-matches. He had been a crack shot at larks in his day; with a little practice he could easily get his hand in again and secure a hundred and twenty thousand francs annually to the end of his life. Such an easy way to do it, au moins! Traversing Switzerland by short marches, going slowly, from canton to canton, rifle on showlder.
The man of schemes grew warm with his subject, climbed mountains, crossed glaciers, descended vales and torrents and shook down avalanches before his astonished young listeners. Of all the imaginings of that disordered brain this was certainly the most astonishing, delivered with an air of perfect conviction, with a fire and flame that, burning inwardly, covered his brow with corrugated wrinkles.
His ravings were only hushed by the breathless arrival of Méjean, who came rushing in much excited:
“Great news!” he said throwing his bag upon the table. “The Ministry is fallen!”
“It can’t be possible!”
“Roumestan takes the Ministry of Public Instruction....”