"Consul," he said, softly, "Councillor Real is again here, and pressingly desires an audience."
Bonaparte rose, and threw away the knife. "Real!" he cried in a loud tone.
The man who was summoned immediately appeared at the open door—a tall, grave personage, with a face so pale and distorted that Bonaparte noticed it, despite his great agitation.
"What is it, Real?" he asked, eagerly. "Have you spoken with the condemned man?"
"Yes, general, I have spoken with him," whispered Real, with pale lips.
"And it is as I said, is it not? This Doctor Querolle has only pretended to be able to make great disclosures, only to prolong his own life a few hours. He has poisoned his wife, in order to marry his mistress, and the poisoner is executed."
"General," cried Fouche, almost with an air of joy, "I knew Querolle, and I knew that his wife poisoned herself. Querolle is not a poisoner."
"What is he then, M. Omniscience?"
"General, he is a conspirator!"
"A conspirator!" repeated Bonaparte, and now his troubled face turned again to the councillor. "Real, what do you know? What did the condemned man say to you?"