“Yes. Have you any way of transmitting my reply to the Comte de Provençe?” “You mean King Louis XVIII.?” “Don’t let us quibble over words. To him who wrote to me.” “His envoy is now at the camp at Aubiers.” “Well, I have changed my mind; I shall send him an answer. These Bourbons are so blind that this one would misinterpret my silence.” And Bonaparte, sitting down at his desk, wrote the following letter with a care that showed he wished to make it legible: I have received your letter, monsieur. I thank you for the good opinion you express in it of me. You must not wish for your return to France; it could only be over a hundred thousand dead bodies. Sacrifice your own interests to the repose and welfare of France. History will applaud you. I am not insensible to the misfortunes of your family, and I shall hear with pleasure that you are surrounded with all that could contribute to the tranquillity of your retreat. BONAPARTE. Then, folding and sealing the letter, he directed it to “Monsieur le Comte de Provençe,” and handed it to Morgan. Then he called Roland, as if he knew the latter were not far off. “General?” said the young officer, appearing instantly. “Conduct this gentleman to the street,” said Bonaparte. “Until then you are responsible for him.” Roland bowed in sign of obedience, let the young man, who said not a word, pass before him, and then followed. But before leaving, Morgan cast a last glance at Bonaparte. The latter was still standing, motionless and silent, with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon the dagger, which occupied his thoughts far more than he was willing to admit even to himself. As they crossed Roland’s room, the Chief of the Companions of Jehu gathered up his cloak and pistols. While he was putting them in his belt, Roland remarked: “The citizen First Consul seems to have shown you a dagger which I gave him.” “Yes, monsieur,” replied Morgan. “Did you recognize it?” “Not that one in particular; all our daggers are alike.” “Well,” said Roland, “I will tell you whence it came.” “Ah! where was that?” “From the breast of a friend of mine, where your Companions, possibly you yourself, thrust it.” “Possibly,” replied the young man carelessly. “But your friend must have exposed himself to punishment.” “My friend wished to see what was happening at night in the Chartreuse.” “He did wrong.” “But I did the same wrong the night before, and nothing happened to me.” “Probably because some talisman protects you.” “Monsieur, let me tell you something. I am a straight-forward man who walks by daylight. I have a horror of all that is mysterious.” “Happy those who can walk the highroads by daylight, Monsieur de Montrevel!”