"You don't want me any more?" queried Dubois abruptly. He was always thankful to shake the dust of the ministerial chamber from his feet. "Well ... unless you have anything else to report, my good M. Dubois," rejoined Fouche pleasantly, "or any further information to impart to me about those Mortains--or the Coursons." "There's nothing else. But I wish to God that the Emperor would reconsider his decision." "The Emperor seldom reconsiders any decision, my dear Dubois ... once it is a decision. The Mortains and the Coursons have probably landed in France by now." "May they break their necks on the gangway," growled Dubois. "Amen to that," quoth Fouche lightly. "In the meanwhile, will you see M. de Real on that subject and send special recommendations to the prefet and the commissary of police at Caen?..." "And to Ronnay de Maurel, I should say." "No," interposed the Minister peremptorily, "leave de Maurel alone. I will write to him myself." Such in substance was the interview between the Minister of Police and the chief prefet. The secretary, among whose papers was found the above account, goes on to say that M. Dubois, having taken his leave, the great man was busy for the next half-hour writing a letter with his own hand. With his own hand also he folded it, sealed it and addressed it. Then he handed it to his secretary with the express order that it should be sent to its destination by the next ministerial courier. The letter was addressed to M. le Comte Ronnay de Maurel, at his Chateau de la Vieuville, near Villemor, Departement de l'Orne. CHAPTER II THE RETURN OF THE NATIVES I "What devastation! What wanton devastation! Oh, those fiends! those cruel, callous fiends!" Mme. la Marquise de Mortain, for once in her life, was thoroughly unnerved. She was ready to cry ... but tears had not come to her eyes for the past twenty years; their well-spring had run dry under the influence of an unconquerable energy and of a glowing enthusiasm for a cause which, at any rate, for the moment was doomed. Mme. la Marquise did not shed tears when she first arrived on a cold, showery night early in May to what had been the luxurious home of her childhood. She did not cry when she wandered half aimlessly through the salons and apartments of the Chateau de Courson--all that was left to her brother of his once splendid patrimony--a mere barrack now where most windows were cracked, where the paper hung in strips from the walls and the ceilings painted by Boucher were stained with smoke and damp.