Von Apsberg said, "you have that of Italy and Germany—for the Vente of my country will act when I speak, or rather when you do."
An expression of pride flashed across Monte-Leone's face. He had evidently been mortified at not becoming supreme director, yet the staff of command was again placed in his grasp. It was not now, though, to confer the command of a single country, but, to use his own words, he became the all-powerful controller of Europe, and, in his opinion, the hope of the universe. This strange man, made up of greatness and littleness, like all the political idealists who erect altars to the creatures of their dreams, and ignorantly make a sacrifice of logic, good sense and reason—this man who sighed for universal liberty, was delighted at the prospect of great, despotic, and aristocratic power, to be exerted by his will alone in three great countries. The Count then yielded willingly to the persuasions of his friends, and promised to fulfil the wishes of the Italian Vente. He said, "The time for action is not come. The French police, in fact, is busy only with the known enemies of the Government, with persons who are compromised in these petty plots originated by self-love—regret for the past, and ambition. Our object is greater; for we do not serve a man, but an idea, or rather the assemblage of ideas, to be expanded everywhere at once, and to replace the darkness of old civilization by torrents of far more dazzling light. The dawn of that light though has not yet come."
"Yet," said Von Apsberg, "the notes I receive announce the formation of new Vente on all sides of us."
"Paris is filled with Carbonari," added d'Harcourt. "Our secret and masonic sign reveals the existence of brothers everywhere to me. I see them in the public places, on the benches of the lawyers, and among the very judges."
"True," said Von Apsberg, "and as an evidence of what d'Harcourt says, look at these voluminous names." The friends examined them carefully.
"It matters not," said Monte-Leone, "too much precipitation would ruin all. Remember our device, an auger piercing the globe."
During all this conversation, Taddeo had remained silent and thoughtful, and the Count at last observed it.
"My friend," said he, "why are you so sad? Can it be, like d'Harcourt just now, that you have any doubt or scruple about our cause? Do you hesitate at the dangers?"
Taddeo, as if he were aroused from a dream, said: "The dangers I anxiously invite, as likely to free me from a life which is become a burden."
Monte-Leone grew pale at these words, for he knew the reason of his deep despair; and the iron of remorse pierced his heart. Before, however, Taddeo's friends could question him, a strange accident attracted the attention of the actors of this scene.