"Yes, so I have been told," mused Fouche. "I understand that a de Maurel fought in the First Crusade, that another was Captain of Musketeers under Louis XIII.; but the present holder of the historic name is an ardent Bonapartist, as you say. He fought like a lion against the Royalists in Vendee; he crossed the Alps with Napoleon, and was wounded at Marengo and at Hohenlinden. At Austerlitz, where he accomplished prodigies of valour, an Austrian bullet lamed him for life. He is a Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honour. His religion is Bonaparte ... he knows no science save that of arms--reads no books and does not know the Carmagnole from the Marseillaise--he is illiterate, uncultured, almost a savage.... These are all facts, are they not, M. Dubois?" "Aye! Ronnay de Maurel is all that and more. He lives at La Vieuville, not ten kilometres from Courson, where Mme. la Marquise, his mother, will now be taking up her abode. Oh!" added the prefet of police with a malevolent grin, "how those two will execrate one another!" "And watch over one another," commented Fouche with his enigmatic smile. "Ronnay de Maurel will act as a check on the intrigues which might be hatching presently in Mme. de Mortain's fertile brain." "Nothing--and no one can act as a check on that woman's love of intrigue," growled Dubois surlily. "She and her son Laurent will give us all plenty to do until...." He made a significant gesture with his hand against his neck. Fouche smiled. "We can always give them plenty of rope," he said. "How old is Laurent de Mortain?" "Twenty-one or two ... but he has fought against his own country since he was sixteen. Mme. de Mortain favours a marriage for him with Fernande de Courson, his cousin." "The daughter of Baudouin de Courson?" "Yes. His only daughter. He is Mme. de Mortain's only brother. Their properties adjoin." "I know. He, too, has been granted leave by the Emperor to return to France." "A whole pack of those confounded emigres," once more growled the prefet of police--this time with a savage oath, "settled down in the most disaffected province of France. Joseph de Puisaye still at large ... the department seething with discontent ... everything ready for rebellion ... the Emperor away.... Ah! we shall have a fine time down there, I reckon." "Bah!" quoth Fouche lightly, "they are not very dangerous now. For one thing, the Mortains, the Coursons and the whole pack of them are as poor as church mice. Their lands and farms have all been sold; the Mortains have not even a chateau in which to live." "The Chateau of Courson stands." "A dilapidated barrack."