They both hastened their steps, and saw Madame Pélisson follow the arcades, skirt the Place du Palais-Royal, and then, throwing uneasy glances to left and right, disappear into the Hôtel du Louvre. At that the minister began to laugh from the depths of his throat. His little leaden eyes lighted up. And he muttered between his teeth the words which his secretary guessed rather than heard: “The magistracy is avenged.” * * * * * On the same day the Emperor, then in residence at Fontainebleau, was smoking cigarettes in the library of the palace. He was leaning motionless, with the air of a melancholy sea-bird, against the case in which is kept the Monaldeschi coat of mail. Viollet-le-Duc and Mérimée, both his intimate friends, stood by his side. He asked: “Why, Monsieur Mérimée, do you like the works of Brantôme?” “Sire,” replied Mérimée, “in them I recognise the French nation, with her good and bad qualities. She is never worse than when she is without a leader to show her a noble aim.” “Really,” said the Emperor, “does one find that in Brantôme?” “One also finds in him,” answered Mérimée, “the influence of women in the affairs of state.” At that moment Madame Ramel entered the gallery. Napoleon had given orders that she should be allowed to come to him whenever she presented herself. At the sight of his foster-sister he showed as much delight as his expressionless, sorrowful face was capable of displaying. “My dear Madame Ramel,” asked he, “how is your nephew getting on at Nantes? Is he satisfied?” “But, sire,” said Madame Ramel, “he was not sent there. Another was nominated in his place.” “That’s strange,” murmured His Majesty thoughtfully. Then, placing his hand on the academician’s shoulder: “My dear Monsieur Mérimée, I am supposed to rule the fate of France, of Europe, and of the world. And I cannot get a nomination for a _substitut_ of the sixth class, at a salary of two thousand four hundred francs.” XV Having finished his reading, M. Bergeret folded up his manuscript and put it in his pocket. M. Mazure, M. Paillot, and M. de Terremondre nodded three times in silence. Then the last-named placed a hand on Bergeret’s shoulder: “What you have just read to us, my dear sir,” said he, “is truly …” At this moment Léon flung himself into the shop and exclaimed with a mixture of excitement and importance: “Madame Houssieu has just been found strangled in her bed.” “How extraordinary!” said M. de Terremondre. “From the state of the body,” added Léon, “it is believed that death took place three days ago.” “Then,” remarked M. Mazure, the archivist, “that would make it Saturday that the crime was committed.” Paillot, the bookseller, who had remained silent up till now, with his mouth wide open out of deference to death, now began to collect his thoughts.