"My name is Louis Veuillot," replied the stranger.
While the process was being drawn up against the celebrated writer, a lady crossed the limits a short distance behind him, and went to kneel before the planks that shut up the grotto. Through the cracks of the palisade she watched the bubbling miraculous spring and prayed. What was she asking of God? Was her prayer directed towards the past or the future? Was it for herself or others, whose destiny had been confided to her? Did she ask the blessing of Heaven for one person or for a family? Never mind!
This lady did not escape the watchful eyes of him who represented at once the prefectoral policy, the magistracy, and the police.
Argus quitted M. Veuillot, and rushed towards the kneeling figure.
"Madame," said he, "it is not permitted to pray here. You are caught in open violation of the law; you will have to answer for it before the police court. Your name?"
"Certainly," replied the lady; "I am Madame l'Amirale Bruat, governess to his highness the Prince Imperial."
The terrible Jacomet had, above all things, a respect for the social hierarchy and the powers that be. He did not pursue the procès-verbal. Such scenes were often renewed. Certain of the procès-verbaux frightened the agents, and may possibly have frightened the prefect himself.
A deplorable state of things: his orders were violated with impunity by the powerful, and cruelly maintained at the expense of the weak. He had two sets of weights and measures.