Part 73 (2/2)
”Your spies are robbing you. You are very ill informed,” retorted the banker.
”Why try to trifle with me? Everybody conspires under the open heavens these days. These Bourbons are imbeciles, and their Prefect of Police, Monsieur Andre, is a ninny! We play all around their legs.”
”How can you dare to hold such language in the very palace of our beloved sovereigns?” protested Count Desmarais.
”Come, now! You and your fellows in the Chamber of Peers are yourselves conspirators and enemies of the Bourbons.”
”Your conspiracies are pure will-o'-the-wisps,” again retorted Hubert.
”Well, I tell you that you, Hubert, are conspiring for the Duke of Orleans. Several officers and generals are conspiring in favor of Bonaparte. A number of colonels in command of regiments are connected with this second plot; while, finally, the old Jacobins, and notably your son-in-law John Lebrenn, Citizen Brutus, as well as the painter Martin and their friends, are conspiring for the Republic; that's a third conspiracy.”
”All these plots and complots are of your own invention,” grumbled Desmarais, feeling very uneasy.
”True!” acquiesced Fouche with a smile. ”But if I never follow the conspiracies I invent, I at least always let myself into those which the imbeciles are nursing. I've a foot everywhere: with the republicans, as an ex-Terrorist; among the Bonapartists, as ex-minister of the Emperor; with the Orleanists as an old friend of Philip Equality's; in short, the best proof I can give you of the existence of these complots is, that I have just come to denounce them. Yes,” he continued, his smile broadening, while Desmarais and Hubert stared at him in stupefaction, ”I have come to denounce them to that blockhead of a Blacas.”
”His Excellency will have the honor to receive Monsieur the Duke of Otranto,” announced the usher, making a low bow to Fouche.
”Messieurs,” beamed Fouche as he moved towards the open door, ”a royalist like me comes before everybody.”
As the door closed after Fouche, a new group of solicitors entered the waiting room. These newcomers were the Count of Plouernel, now in spite of his missing eye lieutenant-general and second in command of the company of Black Musketeers of the military household of Louis XVIII; the Count's son, Viscount Gonthram, a boy of thirteen, in the costume of King's page; and, lastly, Cardinal Plouernel, the Count's younger brother. The prelate was garbed in a red cloak and cap. For a moment these new personages stood apart, then the Count of Plouernel advanced towards Monsieur Hubert, whom he did not at first recognize, and engaged him in the following conversation:
”Will you have the goodness, sir, to inform me whether the audiences have commenced?”
”Yes, monsieur; just now the Duke of Otranto was called in by Monsieur the Duke of Blacas. But, pardon me,” he added, as little by little he recalled the other's features, ”is it not Monsieur the Count of Plouernel whom I have the honor to address?”
”Yes, monsieur,” replied the latter.
”Monsieur, do you not recognize me?” continued Hubert. ”I will a.s.sist you. We met in 1792, during the trial of our unhappy King. We were conspiring then against the Republic--”
”St. Roche Street, at the house of the former beadle of the parish? Now I recall it!”
”Who would have told us then, Monsieur Count, that more than twenty years after that meeting we would encounter each other again in the palace of the brother of that royal martyr?”
”I fear lest that terrible lesson be lost upon royalty.”
”Between ourselves, and without reproach, you have been somewhat the cause of these unhappinesses, you gentlemen of the n.o.bility.”
”In conspiring against the republican Const.i.tution we but defended our property and our honor. The Republic despoiled us of our seigniorial rights, sacred and consecrated rights which we held of G.o.d and of our sword.”
”Ah, the eternal strife between the Franks and the Gauls! Why is not my nephew Lebrenn here to reply to you!”
”What say you, sir?” asked Plouernel, shuddering at the name. ”That Lebrenn, that ironsmith, has he become your nephew? What strange news!”
”He married my niece, the daughter of advocate Desmarais, to-day Count and peer of France.”
Under the weight of the memories evoked by the name of Lebrenn, the Count fell silent. The Cardinal drew close to the speakers, holding by the hand his nephew Gonthram. His Eminence, better served by his memory than his brother the Count, recognized Hubert at once, and addressed him in the most courteous tones:
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