“Poor devil!” said Marcel sympathetically. “And so you knew what was in your despatches. I hope it was worth flaying yourself for?”
“I did not know when I left Paris,” answered the rider, moving restlessly. “Nor when I got here. But Brune has just let it out.”
“Well, was it worth it?”
There was no reply. “Adolphe, you need not be so deuced discreet! I’m on the staff, you know.”
“Yes, the staff at least will know it to-morrow,” muttered Adolphe. “—Don’t let anyone guess that you have been told already, that’s all . . . You know that man who organised Finistère, de Kersaint?”
“I should think I did!” responded Marcel with animation. “The General has been getting furious despatches about him almost every day of late from the First Consul, saying that he must be finished with at once, by whatever means. His being the only one of the Royalist leaders who would have nothing to do with the idea of pacification—even Cadoudal came down to it in the end—has, I suppose, enraged Bonaparte. However, Brune has got him in a cleft stick at last, and he has agreed to all the terms, including the surrender of his sword. I saw the letter myself this afternoon—in a woman’s hand it was. Have your despatches to do with him?”
“They have,” said Adolphe. “Exclusively. He is coming under a safe-conduct, I take it?”
“Yes. The General sent it some days ago.”
“Well, it . . . it is to be withdrawn. That’s what I have flayed myself for.”
“What! O, but that’s a mistake; it can’t be withdrawn now. De Kersaint has accepted it; he is going to use it.”