He set Austria and Russia by the ears, and heated up the quarrel until there was every prospect of war; lined up their adherents and pushed them into the conflict, and manœuvred so marvellously that, in a very short while, France and her friendship were the objects of the diplomacy of both contending parties. Metternich, Nesselrode, Hardenberg, Castlereagh, Stewart, and Stackelberg were little more than children in his hands. His confrères, Noailles, Dupin, and Dalberg, had no voice in the questions that arose. Talleyrand was the Congress, and when he began to use his power to pay off some of his grudges and enmities, it was on Murat that his hand first fell. More Legitimist than the Legitimists, he set out to earn the million francs promised him by Ferdinand for the throne of Naples. The first inkling that Murat received of the turn that affairs had taken was a request, couched in the terms of a command, from Francis that he would restore the Marches to the Pope. Now the Marches in question had been promised to Murat by Francis himself, not twelve months before, and Murat in answer proceeded to increase his garrison and commenced to strengthen the fortifications of Ancona. He, besides, started a quarrel with the Pope, and dispatched a Minister of his called Magella into the Marches to assist the Carbonari in their plots against the dominion of the Holy Father. It was about this time that he began to receive overtures, couched in the most affectionate and brotherly language, from Napoleon at Elba. A succession of disguised conspirators from Paris and other places passed in and out of the Palace in Naples, generally under cover of the spring night, while the city disported itself along the waterfront, and gay ladies and gay men sat over their cards in the great cool rooms, or wandered about in the sleeping gardens. For Naples was gay in those days. People saw light ahead after the years of gloom. Hunger had vanished—real hunger, at any rate. The king’s public works gave employment. Uniforms glittered everywhere. To their minds, Naples was a Paris in miniature; so the lights shone and the world danced and played on, music lay over the place in a rainbow web of sound, and the blue sea smiled at the stars. But up in the palace, behind closed doors, Murat sat with his chin in his hand, and his eyes wandering out to the sea from time to time, as though he expected to see something there—something whose name was never mentioned except between him and his wife, and then only in whispers. By ones and twos the mysterious figures arrived, coming in through side doors, and staying awhile, talking with their hands to their mouths, some volubly and eagerly, some gently and hesitatingly; but one thing could be observed of all of them, and that was that somewhere on their persons, casually as a trifle, but plain enough to eyes that looked for it, was either a small bunch of violets, or a strip of violet-coloured ribbon, or a bit of violet-coloured silk.