Moreau, led by military ambition, had consented to play a part in this great drama; he was now forced to accept that which the author assigned him. On returning to the Louvre, Gohier and Moulins found nothing changed apparently. All the sentries were at their posts. They retired to one of the salons of the presidency to consult together. But they had scarcely begun their conference, when General Jubé, the commandant of the Luxembourg, received orders to join Bonaparte at the Tuileries with the guard of the Directory. Their places were filled by Moreau and a portion of the soldiers who had been electrified by Bonaparte. Nevertheless the two Directors drew up a message for the Council of the Five Hundred, in which they protested energetically against what had been done. When this was finished Gohier handed it to his secretary, and Moulins, half dead with exhaustion, returned to his apartments to take some food. It was then about four o’clock in the afternoon. An instant later Gohier’s secretary returned in great perturbation. “Well,” said Gohier, “why have you not gone?” “Citizen president,” replied the young man, “we are prisoners in the palace.” “Prisoners? What do you mean?” “The guard has been changed, and General Jubé is no longer in command.” “Who has replaced him?” “I think some one said General Moreau.” “Moreau? Impossible! And that coward, Barras, where is he?” “He has started for his country-place at Grosbois.” “Ah! I must see Moulins!” cried Gohier, rushing to the door. But at the entrance he found a sentry who barred the door. Gohier insisted. “No one can pass,” said the sentry. “What! not pass?” “No.” “But I am President Gohier!” “No one can pass,” said the sentry; “that is the order.” Gohier saw it would be useless to say more; force would be impossible. He returned to his own rooms. In the meantime, General Moreau had gone to see Moulins; he wished to justify himself. Without listening to a word the ex-Director turned his back on him, and, as Moreau insisted, he said: “General, go into the ante-chamber. That is the place for jailers.” Moreau bowed his head, and understood for the first time into what a fatal trap his honor had fallen. At five o’clock, Bonaparte started to return to the Rue de la Victoire; all the generals and superior officers in Paris accompanied him. The blindest, those who had not understood the 13th Vendemiaire, those who had not yet understood the return from Egypt, now saw, blazing over the Tuileries, the star of his future, and as everybody could not be a planet, each sought to become a satellite. The shouts of “Vive Bonaparte!” which came from the lower part of the Rue du Mont Blanc, and swept like a sonorous wave toward the Rue de la Victoire, told Josephine of her husband’s return. The impressionable Creole had awaited him anxiously. She sprang to meet him in such agitation that she was unable to utter a single word.