As Jacques Collin left Monsieur de Granville’s room, the Comte des Lupeaulx, Secretary-in-Chief of the President of the Council, and a deputy, made his appearance, and with him a feeble-looking, little old man. This individual, wrapped in a puce-colored overcoat, as though it were still winter, with powdered hair, and a cold, pale face, had a gouty gait, unsteady on feet that were shod with loose calfskin boots; leaning on a gold-headed cane, he carried his hat in his hand, and wore a row of seven orders in his button-hole.
“What is it, my dear des Lupeaulx?” asked the public prosecutor.
“I come from the Prince,” replied the Count, in a low voice. “You have carte blanche if you can only get the letters—Madame de Serizy’s, Madame de Maufrigneuse’s and Mademoiselle Clotilde de Grandlieu’s. You may come to some arrangement with this gentleman——”
“Who is he?” asked Monsieur de Granville, in a whisper.
“There are no secrets between you and me, my dear sir,” said des Lupeaulx. “This is the famous Corentin. His Majesty desires that you will yourself tell him all the details of this affair and the conditions of success.”
“Do me the kindness,” replied the public prosecutor, “of going to tell the Prince that the matter is settled, that I have not needed this gentleman’s assistance,” and he turned to Corentin. “I will wait on His Majesty for his commands with regard to the last steps in the matter, which will lie with the Keeper of the Seals, as two reprieves will need signing.”
“You have been wise to take the initiative,” said des Lupeaulx, shaking hands with the Comte de Granville. “On the very eve of a great undertaking the King is most anxious that the peers and the great families should not be shown up, blown upon. It ceases to be a low criminal case; it becomes an affair of State.”
“But tell the Prince that by the time you came it was all settled.”
“Really!”
“I believe so.”