‘Now, sir, I ask you how this gentleman is called, whom I, alone of all France, am ignorant of?’
‘Monsieur Fouché,’ said he calmly.
‘What! Fouché, the Minister of Police?’
This time, at least, my agitated looks seemed to move him, for he replied quietly—
‘The same, sir. The horse has the brand of the “Ministère” on his haunch.’
‘And where is the Ministère?’ cried I eagerly.
‘In the Rue des Victoires, monsieur.’
‘But he lives in the country, in a château near this very forest.’
‘Where does he not live, monsieur? At Versailles, at St. Germain, in the Luxembourg, in the Marais, at Neuilly, the Batignolles. I have carried despatches to him in every quarter of Paris. Ah, monsieur, what secret are you in possession of, that it was worth while to lay so subtle a trap to catch you?’
This question, put in all the frank abruptness of a sudden thought, immediately revealed everything before me.