The daily journeys of the prince, too, interested him much, and once or twice he made me repeat what the peasant had said of the horse being able to travel from Strasbourg without a halt. I vow it puzzled me why he should dwell on these points in preference to others of far more interest, but I set them down to the caprices of illness, and thought no more of them. His daily life, his conversation, the opinions he expressed about France, the questions he used to ask, were all matters he inquired into, till, finally, we came to the anecdote of the meditated assassination of Bonaparte. This he made me tell him twice over, each time asking me eagerly whether, by an effort of memory, I could not recall the name of the man who had offered his services for the deed. This I could not; indeed I knew not if I had ever heard it.
‘But the prince rejected the proposal?’ said he, peering at me beneath the dark shadow of his heavy brow; ‘he would not hear of it?’
‘Of course not,’ cried I; ‘he even threatened to denounce the man to the Government.’
‘And do you think that he would have gone thus far, sir?’ asked he slowly.
‘I am certain of it. The horror and disgust he expressed when reciting the story were a guarantee for what he would have done.’
‘But yet Bonaparte has been a dreadful enemy to his race.’ said the count.
‘It is not a Condé can right himself by a murder,’ said I, as calmly.
‘How I like that burst of generous Royalism, young man!’ said he, grasping my hand and shaking it warmly. ‘That steadfast faith in the honour of a Bourbon is the very heart and soul of loyalty!’
Now, although I was not, so far as I knew of, anything of a Royalist—the cause had neither my sympathy nor my wishes—I did not choose to disturb the equanimity of a poor sick man by a needless disclaimer, nor induce a discussion which must be both unprofitable and painful.
‘How did the fellow propose the act? had he any accomplices? or was he alone?’