"You are going to a higher authority, monsieur, not a lower one."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You are going to Paris. Monsieur le Comte Réal, the head of our branch of the police, will decide what is to be done with you."
"Mon Dieu! The old Jacobin! He nearly had my uncle in his fangs once," said Angelot, half to himself. "But what do they accuse me of? Chouannerie? But I am not a Chouan, and you know enough of our affairs to know that, Monsieur Simon!"
The Chouan-catcher laughed sourly.
"I believe this is some private devilry," the prisoner went on, with careless daring. "The Prefect has nothing to do with it. It is spite against my uncle—but you are a little afraid of touching him. Don't imagine, though, that you will annoy him particularly by carrying me off. We are not on good terms just now, my uncle and I. In truth, I have offended all my relations, and nobody will be sorry to have me away for a time."
"Tant mieux, monsieur!" said Simon. "Then you won't object to giving the Minister of Police a little information about your uncle and the other Chouan gentlemen, his friends."
"Ah! that is quite another story! That is the idea, is it? Monsieur le Duc de Rovigo, and Monsieur le Comte Réal, flatter themselves that they have got hold of a traitor?"
"Pardon, monsieur! It is the Chouans who are traitors."
"I think I could find a few others in our poor France this very night. But I am not one of them. Again, whose authority have you for arresting me? Is it Monsieur Réal who has stretched his long arm so far?"