“Of course Monsieur l’Ambassadeur would not talk thus unless he were sure that his action will have the approval of the First Consul?” Baranoff’s smile was not that of a friend. It was a sudden revelation to the Marquis, showing how sinister the Count could be when crossed in his purpose. “You will mention this matter in your next despatch to him, eh?”
“This man means mischief,” thought De Vaucluse. “He will take care that General Bonaparte hears of this matter. And then——?”
The Ambassador did not like to think of the “then.” Never before in his diplomatic career had he been in such a strait as the present, and all due to that wayward Pauline! He glanced somewhat darkly at his daughter, little thinking that at that moment she had far greater grounds for uneasiness than he had.
“General, you are drunk!” had been her frank utterance to Benningsen as soon as she had found opportunity to converse with him privately.
“Heigh-ho! I wish I were,” replied the warrior.
“You must be, or you would never, in the presence of Baranoff, have drunk to the powers that will be.”
“Pooh! what matters?”
“Much. He’ll be guessing our secret. He’s mean enough to report your words to Paul. Do you want to be sent into exile a second time?”
“It’s a case of exile for all patriots, I’m thinking. I leave the city to-night. By the waters of Finland I’ll sit down and weep when I remember thee, O Petropolis, for I shall have to leave all behind me, including my villa at Oranienbaum. I’m glad it isn’t paid for.”
“Speak more clearly, General,” said Pauline looking startled.