“I fear, in that case, that the First Consul will not obtain the relief which he desires,” observed M. de Brencourt drily. “Who that had had any acquaintance with him could imagine that the Duc de Trélan would, for any consideration, stoop to sue from Bonaparte—and by so doing serve Bonaparte’s purpose too! . . . I should scarcely like even to propose such an idea to him.—But of course it would be only proper to inform him—as I expect you have already done?”
Hyde de Neuville looked thoughtful. He nodded. “My note must have reached him, by the usual channel, three or four hours ago.—By the way, has the Duchesse started for the Temple? I think her interview was for three o’clock, was it not? I was wondering whether the ease with which, in the end, the order was obtained, was due to the idea that she might work on her husband if she knew.”
“Then I am thankful that she does not know,” replied the Comte rather hoarsely.
“You mean that it would be of no use? Well, we must then stake everything on to-morrow night’s affair, which promises excellently.” He brought out a paper. “Now, who of these do you think had best drive the carriage, and who play the officer commanding the escort? And I have not yet quite arranged about all the further relays.”
(3)
At that very moment Valentine, on Roland’s arm, had just emerged from the Rue du Roule into the Rue Saint-Honoré, whence they intended to take a fiacre to the Temple. In that animated and busy street Roland was looking round for a carriage when he suddenly exclaimed,
“See, Madame, what is coming. Is it—it must be the First Consul himself!”
Valentine followed his eyes. From the direction of the Tuileries was approaching, at a fast trot, a carriage with an escort of mounted grenadiers. It came onwards in a clatter of hoofs, and on its passage a roar of cheers went up and hats were waved. Valentine felt a momentary dizziness, and held Roland’s arm tightly. She was about to see the master of France, the great general, the great administrator, the genius with a marvellous brain, an indomitable will, and a petty soul—the man who had her husband’s life in his hand, to keep or to throw away. But when the carriage was almost abreast she involuntarily dropped Roland’s arm and drew herself up, the pride of a long line firing her blood.
And she saw, passing quickly, not, as she had expected, a young hero in uniform, but, in a grey civilian overcoat, the wide revers crossed closely over his chest, a little man whose hollow temples and cheeks, and pallid yellowish complexion, made him look at least ten years older than his thirty years. Sombre and preoccupied, his head sunk on his breast, he appeared almost indifferent to the plaudits of the crowd, but chance, or something in her attitude, drew his eyes in Valentine’s direction, and for one brief second the Duchesse de Trélan sustained—and returned—the singular and burning gaze of Napoleon Bonaparte. Then he was gone.
Trembling a little, Mme de Trélan took the young man’s arm again. She could not shake off the feeling that the First Consul knew who she was, and that it was the question of the Duc de Trélan’s fate which was absorbing his thoughts just then. And he did not look as if he could be turned from his purpose by any woman. . . .