"No. He cannot do that. The Emperor won't let him. He is far too useful in Normandy just now to be mere food for Prussian cannon."
There was a pause. The préfet of police was tacitly dismissed. M. le Ministre drew some papers close to him, and his delicate, blue-veined hand toyed with the pen.
"You don't want me any more?" queried Dubois abruptly. He was always thankful to shake the dust of the ministerial chamber from his feet.
"Well ... unless you have anything else to report, my good M. Dubois," rejoined Fouché pleasantly, "or any further information to impart to me about those Mortains—or the Coursons."
"There's nothing else. But I wish to God that the Emperor would reconsider his decision."
"The Emperor seldom reconsiders any decision, my dear Dubois ... once it is a decision. The Mortains and the Coursons have probably landed in France by now."
"May they break their necks on the gangway," growled Dubois.
"Amen to that," quoth Fouché lightly. "In the meanwhile, will you see M. de Réal on that subject and send special recommendations to the préfet and the commissary of police at Caen?..."
"And to Ronnay de Maurel, I should say."