rned instinctively to M. le prefet, others to General
Marchand. Every one knew that Bonaparte had landed on the Littoral,
every one had heard the rumour that he was marching in triumph through
Provence and the Dauphine--but no one had altogether believed this--as
for a message--a proclamation--a call to the army--and this in Grenoble
itself. No one had heard of that--every one had been at home, getting
dressed for this festive function, thinking of good suppers and of
wedding bells. It was as if after a clap of thunder and a flash of
lightning the house was found to be in flames. M. le prefet in answer to
these mute queries had shrugged his shoulders, and General Marchand
looked grim and silent.

But St. Genis with arm uplifted and shaking hand pointed a finger at de
Marmont.

"Ask him," he cried. "Ask him, my dear Comte, ask the miserable traitor
who with lies and damnable treachery has stolen his way into your
house, has stolen your regard, your hospitality, and was on the point of
stealing your most precious treasure--your daughter! Ask him! He knows
every word of that infamous message by heart! I doubt not but a copy of
it is inside his coat now. Ask him! General Mouton-Duveret met him
outside Grenoble in company with that cur Emery and I saw him with mine
own eyes distributing these hellish papers among our townspeople and
pinning them up at the street-corners of our city."

While St. Genis was speaking--or rather screaming--for his voice,
pitched high, seemed to fill the entire room--every glance was fixed
upon de Marmont. Every one of course expected a contradiction as hot and
intemperate as was the accusation. It was unthinkable, impossible that
what St. Genis said could be true. They all knew de Marmont well. Nephew
of the Duc de Raguse who had borne the lion's share in surrendering
Paris to the allies and bringing about the downfall of the Corsican
usurper, he was one of the most trusted members of the royalist set in
Dauphine. They had talked quite freely before him, consulted with him
when local Bonapartism appeared uncomfortably rampant. De Marmont was
one of themselves.

And yet he said nothing even now when St. Genis accused him and hurled
insult upon insult at him:--he said nothing to refute the awful
impeachment, to justify his conduct, to explain his companionship with
Emery. His face was still livid, but it was with rage--not indignation.
Marchand and Genevois still held him by the arms, else he a