“By St. Nicholas! your idea is not a bad one, it’s possible. But do you know that Jean Plessis has discovered you are here, and also that it was you who stopped and attempted to rob him a month ago?” “Tonnerre de diable! how is that?” exclaimed Augustine Vadier starting up, his one orb flashing with excitement. “Who betrayed me?” “It’s deuced little consequence,” said Gramont, “because Plessis is not likely to make any advantage of his discovery. He used it against me, though, for he insinuated that I was your accomplice.” “But who betrayed my retreat?” again demanded Augustine Vadier. “If the government knew I was here, or any where in France, they would have my head.” “It’s only three parts of a head now,” replied his companion, with one of his sneering laughs. “But make yourself easy, they do not want heads; they would be content to send you to Cayenne; it’s a hot place, but——” “Take care, Bertram Gramont,” interrupted the ci-devant galley slave, “that you do not carry your cursed propensity for joking too far; if I make a journey to Cayenne, it’s not unlikely but that you would keep me company.” Bertram Gramont laughed outright. “Diable! you are sensitive, mon ami. If I should have to keep you company we should still row in the same boat; come, come, be sensible.” Augustine Vadier swallowed his ire, and again demanded how Jean Plessis had obtained his information about him. “Through our own folly,” said Gramont. “I thought myself so secure in my projects, that it slipped my memory how unwise it was to turn that rascal Antoine Dubois out of my service, drunken and impudent as he was.” “Antoine Dubois!” repeated Vadier, with intense surprise; “how did that villain find out my real name?” “Ma foi! being employed as a spy taught him, no doubt, the trick of practising the trade at home. The rascal must have been acting the spy upon us, and, no doubt, picked up his information by listening, and, maybe, overhauling some of your papers.” “Curse him! you open my eyes,” said Vadier, bitterly. “But no matter, let us consult what is to be done. Your matrimonial scheme did not answer, your finances are at the lowest ebb, and this day month if you do not pay one hundred and twenty-three thousand francs to Monsieur Marie-Claude-Sanglois, you must surrender this estate and château to be sold.” “Well, I know that,” carelessly returned Bertram Gramont; “I want something fresh from you. Could you not forge me an order, signed by Madame Coulancourt, for one hundred thousand francs upon her banker?” “No,” returned Vadier; “the failure in securing those papers Jean Plessis had in his possession throws us out. Her Paris banker has no such sum, depend on it; the bulk of her fortune is disposed of in some other way we have failed in finding out. Monsieur Barras, depend on it, has secured a goodly portion. No, you must still stick to convicting her of attempting flight from this country, the only way you can secure your ends.”