“I assert,” said the corporal of Arcis, in their ear, “that if the four young men slept here last night it must have been in the beds of their father and mother, and Mademoiselle de Cinq-Cygne, or those of the servants; or they must have spent the night in the park. There is not a trace of their presence.”
“Who could have warned them?” said Corentin, to Peyrade. “No one but the First Consul, Fouche, the ministers, the prefect of police, and Malin knew anything about it.”
“We must set spies in the neighborhood,” whispered Peyrade.
“And watch the spies,” said the abbe, who smiled as he overheard the word and guessed all.
“Good God!” thought Corentin, replying to the abbe’s smile with one of his own; “there is but one intelligent being here,—he’s the one to come to an understanding with; I’ll try him.”
“Gentlemen—” said the mayor, anxious to give some proof of devotion to the First Consul and addressing the two agents.
“Say ‘citizens’; the Republic still exists,” interrupted Corentin, looking at the priest with a quizzical air.
“Citizens,” resumed the mayor, “just as I entered this salon and before I had opened my mouth Catherine rushed in and took her mistress’s hat, gloves, and whip.”
A low murmur of horror came from the breasts of all the household except Gothard. All eyes but those of the agent and the gendarmes were turned threateningly on Goulard, the informer, seeming to dart flames at him.
“Very good, citizen mayor,” said Peyrade. “We see it all plainly. Some one” (this with a glance of evident distrust at Corentin) “warned the citizeness Cinq-Cygne in time.”