retreated on Sisteron."

Though M. le Comte de Cambray had listened to the prefet's narrative
with all his habitual grandeur of mien, it soon became obvious that some
of his aristocratic sangfroid had already abandoned him. His furrowed
cheeks had become a shade paler than usual, and the slender hand which
toyed with an ivory paper-knife on his desk had not its wonted
steadiness. Mme. la Duchesse perceived this, no doubt, for her keen eyes
were fixed scrutinisingly upon her brother; she saw too that his thin
lips were quivering and that the reason why he made no comment on what
he had just heard was because he could not quite trust himself to speak.
It was she, therefore, who now remarked quietly:

"And in your department, M. le prefet, in Grenoble itself, is the
garrison equally likely to go over to the Corsican brigand?"

M. Fourier shrugged his shoulders. He was not at all sure.

"After what has happened at Digne, Mme. la Duchesse," he said, "I would
not care to prophesy. General Marchand does not intend to trust entirely
to the garrison. He has sent to Vienne and to Chambery for
reinforcements . . . but . . ."

The prefet was hesitating, evidently he had not a great deal of faith in
the loyalty of those reinforcements either.

M. le Comte made a vigorous protest. "Surely, M. Fourier," he said, "you
don't mean to suggest that Grenoble is going to turn traitor to the
King?"

But M. le prefet apparently had meant to suggest it.

"Alas, M. le Comte!" he said, "we must always bear in mind that the
whole of the Dauphine has remained throughout a bed of Bonapartism."

"But in that case . . ." ejaculated the Comte.

"General Marchand is doing all he can to ensure effectual resistance, M.
le Comte. But we are in the hands of the army, and the army has never
been truly loyal to the King. At the bottom of every soldier's haversack
there is an old and worn tricolour cockade, which is there ready to be
fetched out at a moment's notice, and will be fetched out at the mere
sound of the Corsican's voice. We are in the hands of the army, M. le
Comte, and in the Dauphine; alas! the army is only too ready to cry:
'Vive l'Empereur!'"

There was silence in the stately room now, silence only broken by the
tap-tap of the ivory paper-knife with which M. le Comte was still
nervously fidgeting. M. Fourier was wiping the perspiration from his
overheated brow.

"For God's sake, Andre, stop that irritating noise," said Mme. Duch