“We shall meet again, Monsieur d’Escorval,” he said, as he retired. At this threat, Maurice shrugged his shoulders, and said: “You had better not desire it.” CHAPTER V The abode of the Baron d’Escorval, that brick structure with stone trimmings which was visible from the superb avenue leading to Sairmeuse, was small and unpretentious. Its chief attraction was a pretty lawn that extended to the banks of the Oiselle, and a small but beautifully shaded park. It was known as the Chateau d’Escorval, but that appellation was gross flattery. Any petty manufacturer who had amassed a small fortune would have desired a larger, handsomer, and more imposing establishment. M. d’Escorval--and it will be an eternal honor to him in history--was not rich. Although he had been intrusted with several of those missions from which generals and diplomats often return laden with millions, M. d’Escorval’s worldly possessions consisted only of the little patrimony bequeathed him by his father: a property which yielded an income of from twenty to twenty-five thousand francs a year. This modest dwelling, situated about a mile from Sairmeuse, represented the savings of ten years. He had built it in 1806, from a plan drawn by his own hand; and it was the dearest spot on earth to him. He always hastened to this retreat when his work allowed him a few days of rest. But this time he had not come to Escorval of his own free will. He had been compelled to leave Paris by the proscribed list of the 24th of July--that fatal list which summoned the enthusiastic Labedoyere and the honest and virtuous Drouot before a court-martial. And even in this solitude, M. d’Escorval’s situation was not without danger. He was one of those who, some days before the disaster of Waterloo, had strongly urged the Emperor to order the execution of Fouche, the former minister of police. Now, Fouche knew this counsel; and he was powerful. “Take care!” M. d’Escorval’s friends wrote him from Paris. But he put his trust in Providence, and faced the future, threatening though it was, with the unalterable serenity of a pure conscience. The baron was still young; he was not yet fifty, but anxiety, work, and long nights passed in struggling with the most arduous difficulties of the imperial policy, had made him old before his time. He was tall, slightly inclined to _embonpoint_, and stooped a little. His calm eyes, his serious mouth, his broad, furrowed forehead, and his austere manners inspired respect. “He must be stern and inflexible,” said those who saw him for the first time. But they were mistaken. If, in the exercise of his official duties, this truly great man had the strength to resist all temptations to swerve from the path of right; if, when duty was at stake, he was as rigid as iron, in private life he was as unassuming as a child, and kind and gentle even to the verge of weakness.