“Two regiments of Russian Guards made an Empress of the Grand Duchess Catherine. Will not a couple of brigades do your little job for you? For my life, I cannot see why not?”
The tallow-candle-locked little man on the hearthrug retorted as he warmed himself:
“Catherine only strangled her husband Peter. I have the Assembly to throttle—a very different thing. To carry out my plan successfully I must subsidize the whole Army—cram the pockets of every officer according to his grade—with thousand-franc billets—descend upon the rank-and-file in a shower of wine and gold.”
De Fleury agreed.
“Sapristi! it is as plain as a pikestaff. Those attempts of Strasbourg and Boulogne failed because enough drink—sufficient money—was not lavished upon the soldiers. This time there will have to be enough of both.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” said de Morny, still in the tongue of barbarous Britain, as he dried the wet ink carefully, and glanced towards St. Arnaud, whose sallow face betrayed suspicion and growing ill-humor, at the continuance of this dialogue that he could not understand, “that, like Herr Frankenstein of the German legend, you may create out of the Army a monster that will one day prove dangerous to you?”
Persigny and de Fleury exchanged a glance unseen by their master. He said, throwing the half-finished cigarette upon the hearth:
“Frankenstein killed his monster when he found it inconvenient. That was a mistake; such a brute-force is always of use. He should have bled the creature into weakness and submission. Then he could have kept it until wanted in a cage.”
“A sublime idea,” said de Morny, with the shadow of a grin upon his well-bred, dissipated countenance. “But permit me to suggest that if you attempt to act upon it, you will find your work cut out.”
“You have a biting vein of humor,” said Monseigneur, turning his blinking regard upon the speaker. “Pursue it if it pleases you—it does not disturb me. I belong to the race of the lymphatics—the Imperturbables, whom nothing annoys.”