"Now, sir, I ask you how this gentleman is called, whom I alone, of all France, am ignorant of?"
"Monsieur Fouché," said he, calmly.
"What! Fouché, the Minister of Police?"
This time, at least, my agitated looks seemed to move him, for he replied, quietly:
"The same, sir. The horse has the brand of the 'Ministere' on his haunch."
"And where is the Ministere?" cried I, eagerly.
"In the Rue des Victoires, monsieur."
"But he lives in the country, in a chateau near this very forest."
"Where does he not live, monsieur? At Versailles, at St. Germain, in the Luxembourg, in the Marais, at Neuilly, the Battignolles. I have carried dispatches to him in every quarter of Paris. Ah, monsieur, what secret are you in possession of, that it was worth while to lay so subtle a trap to catch you?"
This question, put in all the frank abruptness of a sudden thought, immediately revealed every thing before me.