"I am leaving Paris," said M. le Vicomte, "for my estates in Auvergne, where I have to put some things in order. From there I am starting on a visit to England." "To England! Why?" "My doctor has ordered me rosbif," replied the old gentleman. Then, rising, he opened the door of the room suddenly, and looked out. "Beril has the habit of applying his ear to keyholes," he explained. "No, my dear Patrique; it is not the state of my health that is moving me to this journey, but the state of France. You know the story of the rats and the sinking ship?" "Yes." "Well, call me a rat." He went on sorting his papers. "Now," he continued, "here is a list of the shares in which I have invested your money. All good, solid English securities. Take it. Our lawyer has all the bonds and scrip. I am taking them with me to England. My address will be Long's Hotel, in Bond Street, London. What do you propose to do? Follow me there, or remain in France?" "First of all," I replied, "why are you going like this? Nothing is threatening France----" "Oho!" said my guardian. "And where have you been studying politics? Down amongst the rabbits at Saluce?" "I read the papers." "Just so, and I read the times. I have been reading them for fifty-seven years. But that is not all. Patrique, do you know that we have a mysterious friend, who interests himself in our affairs?" "I was unaware of the fact." "Well, the fact remains. Now, what I am going to tell you is very secret. I cannot even give you the name of our informant, as I am pledged to an oath of secrecy. But the news has come to me through the German Foreign Office. News has come to me that France is in vital danger." He rose, trembling with excitement. "News has come to me that a thunderbolt is going to fall on France, not from heaven, but from there--from there! from there!" He almost shouted the words, pointing with a shaking finger in a direction which I took to indicate Germany. I have never seen anything more dramatic than the Vicomte's gesture--the shaking hand, the intense expression, the fire in his old eyes, as he stood with one hand grasping the dressing-gown about him, as a Roman might have grasped his toga, the other pointing to the visionary enemy. Then he sank back in his chair. "Well," I said, "if danger is threatening France, I remain." "That is as you please," replied he. "I go." "But why go so soon? Surely you might wait till events are more assured?" "Yes," replied he, "and then they would say I had run away. As it is, I do not run away. I simply depart before the event." "But morally----" "There are no morals in politics." The terrible old man was certainly right in that.