The young man with the bloody finger let him pass. An adorable Fury, as Corneille would have called her, whose hair was held up by a dagger with a blade as sharp as a needle, barred his way, saying: “Morgan, you are the handsomest, the bravest, the most deserving of love of all the men present. What have you to say to the woman who tells you that?” “I answer that I love,” replied Morgan, “and that my heart is too narrow to hold one hatred and two loves.” And he continued on his search. Two young men who were arguing, one saying, “He was English,” the other, “He was German,” stopped him. “The deuce,” cried one; “here is the man who can settle it for us.” “No,” replied Morgan, trying to push past them; “I’m in a hurry.” “There’s only a word to say,” said the other. “We have made a bet, Saint-Amand and I, that the man who was tried and executed at the Chartreuse du Seillon, was, according to him, a German, and, according to me, an Englishman.” “I don’t know,” replied Morgan; “I wasn’t there. Ask Hector; he presided that night.” “Tell us where Hector is?” “Tell me rather where Tiffauges is; I am looking for him.” “Over there, at the end of the room,” said the young man, pointing to a part of the room where the dance was more than usually gay and animated. “You will recognize him by his waistcoat; and his trousers are not to be despised. I shall have a pair like them made with the skin of the very first hound I meet.” Morgan did not take time to ask in what way Tiffauges’ waistcoat was remarkable, or by what queer cut or precious material his trousers had won the approbation of a man as expert in such matters as he who had spoken to him. He went straight to the point indicated by the young man, saw the person he was seeking dancing an été, which seemed, by the intricacy of its weaving, if I may be pardoned for this technical term, to have issued from the salons of Vestris himself. Morgan made a sign to the dancer. Tiffauges stopped instantly, bowed to his partner, led her to her seat, excused himself on the plea of the urgency of the matter which called him away, and returned to take Morgan’s arm. “Did you see him,” Tiffauges asked Morgan. “I have just left him,” replied the latter. “Did you deliver the King’s letter?” “To himself.” “Did he read it?” “At once.” “Has he sent an answer?” “Two; one verbal, one written; the second dispenses with the first.” “You have it?” “Here it is.” “Do you know the contents?” “A refusal.” “Positive?” “Nothing could be more positive.” “Does he know that from the moment he takes all hope away from us we shall treat him as an enemy?” “I told him so.” “What did he answer?” “He didn’t answer; he shrugged his shoulders.” “What do you think his intentions are?” “It’s not difficult to guess.” “Does he mean to keep the power himself?” “It looks like it.” “The power, but not the throne?” “Why not the throne?” “He would never dare to make himself king.”