“The general is an honest man and a brave officer,” said D'Auvergne, somewhat nettled at the tone Murat spoke in. “No small boast either,” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders carelessly, “in the times and the land we live in.” “And what of Cambacèrés's soiree,--how did it go off?” interposed Madame Bonaparte, anxious to relieve the awkward pause that followed. “Like everything in his hotel,--sombre, stately, and stupid; the company all dull, who would be agreeable everywhere else; the tone of the reception labored and affected; and every one dying to get away to Fouché's,--it was his second night for receiving.” “Was that pleasanter, then?” “A hundred times. There are no parties like his: one meets everybody; it is a kind of neutral territory for the Faubourg and the Jacobin, the partisan of our people and the followers of Heaven knows who. Fouché slips about, whispering the same anecdote in confidence to every one, and binding each to secrecy. Then, as every one comes there to spy his neighbor, the host has an excellent opportunity of pumping all in turn; and while they all persist in telling him nothing but lies, they forget that with him no readier road could lead to the detection of truth.” “The Consul!” said a servant, aloud, as the door opened and closed with a crash; and Bonaparte, dressed in the uniform of the Chasseurs of the Guard, and covered with dust, entered. “Was Decrés here?” And then, without waiting for a reply, continued: “It is settled, all finally arranged; I told you, Madame, the 'pear was ripe.' I start to-morrow for Boulogne; you, Murat, must accompany me; D'Auvergne, your division will march the day after. Who is this gentleman?” This latter question, in all its abruptness, was addressed to me, while a dark and ominous frown settled on his features. “My aide-de-camp, sir,” said the old general, hastily, hoping thus to escape further inquiry. “Your name, sir?” said the Consul, harshly, as he fixed his piercing eyes upon me. “Burke, sir; sous-lieutenant--” “Of the Eighth Hussars,” continued he. “I know the rest, sir. Every conspiracy is made up of knaves and fools; you figured in the latter capacity. Mark me, sir, your name is yet to make; the time is approaching when you may have the opportunity. Still, General d' Auvergne, it is not in the ranks of a _Chouan_ plot I should have gone to select my staff.” “Pardon me, sir; but this young man's devotion to you--” “Is on record. General; I have seen it in Mehée de la Touche's own writing,” added Bonaparte, with a sneer. “Give me the fidelity, sir, that has no tarnish,--like your own, D'Auvergne. Go, sir,” said he, turning to me, while he waved his hand towards the door; “it will need all your bravery and all your heroism to make me acquit General d'Auvergne of an act of folly.” [Illustration: Napoleon sends Burke from the room] I hung my head in shame, and with a low reverence and a tottering step moved from the room and closed the door behind me.