“No small boast either,” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders carelessly, “in the times and the land we live in.”
“And what of Cambacèrés's soiree,—how did it go off?” interposed Madame Bonaparte, anxious to relieve the awkward pause that followed.
“Like everything in his hotel,—sombre, stately, and stupid; the company all dull, who would be agreeable everywhere else; the tone of the reception labored and affected; and every one dying to get away to Fouché's,—it was his second night for receiving.”
“Was that pleasanter, then?”
“A hundred times. There are no parties like his: one meets everybody; it is a kind of neutral territory for the Faubourg and the Jacobin, the partisan of our people and the followers of Heaven knows who. Fouché slips about, whispering the same anecdote in confidence to every one, and binding each to secrecy. Then, as every one comes there to spy his neighbor, the host has an excellent opportunity of pumping all in turn; and while they all persist in telling him nothing but lies, they forget that with him no readier road could lead to the detection of truth.”
“The Consul!” said a servant, aloud, as the door opened and closed with a crash; and Bonaparte, dressed in the uniform of the Chasseurs of the Guard, and covered with dust, entered.
“Was Decrés here?” And then, without waiting for a reply, continued: “It is settled, all finally arranged; I told you, Madame, the 'pear was ripe.' I start to-morrow for Boulogne; you, Murat, must accompany me; D'Auvergne, your division will march the day after. Who is this gentleman?”
This latter question, in all its abruptness, was addressed to me, while a dark and ominous frown settled on his features.
“My aide-de-camp, sir,” said the old general, hastily, hoping thus to escape further inquiry.
“Your name, sir?” said the Consul, harshly, as he fixed his piercing eyes upon me.