, as there were two of the name; and
again by inquiring to what circumstances the _emigre_ family were living
as to means, and whether they appeared to derive any of their resources
from France. These were points I could give no information upon, and I
plainly perceived that the count had no patience for a conjecture,
and that, where positive knowledge failed, he instantly passed on to
something else. When I came to speak of Ettenheim his attention became
fixed, not suffering the minutest circumstance to escape him, and even
asking for the exact description of the locality, and its distance from
the towns in the neighbourhood.

The daily journeys of the prince, too, interested him much, and once
or twice he made me repeat what the peasant had said of the horse being
able to travel from Strasbourg without a halt. I vow it puzzled me why
he should dwell on these points in preference to others of far more
interest, but I set them down to the caprices of illness, and thought
no more of them. His daily life, his conversation, the opinions he
expressed about France, the questions he used to ask, were all matters
he inquired into, till, finally, we came to the anecdote of the
meditated assassination of Bonaparte. This he made me tell him twice
over, each time asking me eagerly whether, by an effort of memory, I
could not recall the name of the man who had offered his services for
the deed. This I could not; indeed I knew not if I had ever heard it.

'But the prince rejected the proposal?' said he, peering at me beneath
the dark shadow of his heavy brow; 'he would not hear of it?'

'Of course not,' cried I; 'he even threatened to denounce the man to the
Government.'

'And do you think that he would have gone thus far, sir?' asked he
slowly.

'I am certain of it. The horror and disgust he expressed when reciting
the story were a guarantee for what he would have done.'

'But yet Bonaparte has been a dreadful enemy to his race.' said the
count.

'It is not a Conde can right himself by a murder,' said I, as calmly.

'How I like that burst of generous Royalism, young man!' said he,
grasping my hand and shaking it warmly. 'That steadfast faith in the
honour of a Bourbon is the very heart and soul of loyalty!'

Now, although I was not, so far as I knew of, anything of a
Royalist--the cause had neither my sympathy nor my wishes--I did not
choose to disturb the equanimity of a poor sick man by a needless
disclaimer, nor induc