About this time, my poor mother, on reckoning up her income, found we were so poor that she bethought her of our friend Dermoncourt, in hopes that he might perhaps have still some relations with the Government. So she decided to write and beg him to make inquiries with respect to that unpaid pension of 28,500 francs owing to my father for the years VII and VIII of the Republic. The letter reached Dermoncourt about 20 or 22 December--eight days before the outbreak of insurrection. He replied by return of post, and on 28 December we received the following letter:-- "MY GOOD MADAME DUMAS,--What the devil possesses you to imagine that I could have maintained relations with that rabble of scoundrels who manage our affairs at the present moment? Nay, thank heaven, I have retired, I have nothing at all to do either by means of pen or sword with what is going on. Therefore, my dear lady, do not count on a poor devil like me for anything beyond my own miserable pittance of 1000 francs per annum; but look to God, who, if He does watch what goes on here below, should be very angry at the way things are done. There are two alternatives: either there is no good God, or things would not go on as they are; but I know you believe in the good God--so put your trust in Him. One of these days things will be altered. Ask your son, who must be a tall lad by now, and he will tell you that there is a saying by a Latin author called Horace to the effect that after rain comes fine weather. Keep your umbrella open, then, a little longer and, if fine weather comes, put it down and count on me. "Be hopeful; without hope, which lingers at the bottom of every man's heart, there would be nothing left to decent folk but to blow out their brains. "BARON DERMONCOURT" This letter said very little and yet it said a good deal: my mother gathered that something lay behind it and that Dermoncourt was in the secret.