der of a servant, he met this
little vexation with the characteristic effrontery which had served
his turn so well in the endless intrigues of his self-seeking career.
Without altering his attitude a hair's breadth, one leg in a silk
stocking advanced, his head twisted over his left shoulder, he called
out calmly:

"This way, general. Pray approach. Well? I am all attention."

While General D'Hubert, as ill at ease as if one of his own little
weaknesses had been exposed, presented his request as shortly as
possible, the minister went on feeling the fit of his collar, settling
the lappels before the glass or buckling his back in his efforts to
behold the set of the gold-embroidered coat skirts behind. His still
face, his attentive eyes, could not have expressed a more complete
interest in those matters if he had been alone.

"Exclude from the operations of the Special Commission a certain Feraud,
Gabriel Florian, General of Brigade of the promotion of 1814?" he
repeated in a slightly wondering tone and then turned away from the
glass. "Why exclude him precisely?"

"I am surprised that your Excellency, so competent in the valuation of
men of his time, should have thought it worth while to have that name
put down on the list."

"A rabid Bonapartist."

"So is every grenadier and every trooper of the army, as your Excellency
well knows. And the individuality of General Feraud can have no more
weight than that of any casual grenadier. He is a man of no mental
grasp, of no capacity whatever. It is inconceivable that he should ever
have any influence."

"He has a well-hung tongue though," interjected Fouche.

"Noisy, I admit, but not dangerous."

"I will not dispute with you. I know next to nothing of him. Hardly his
name in fact."

"And yet your Excellency had the presidency of the commission charged by
the king to point out those who were to be tried," said General D'Hubert
with an emphasis which did not miss the minister's ear.

"Yes, general," he said, walking away into the dark part of the vast
room and throwing himself into a high-backed armchair whose overshadowed
depth swallowed him up, all but the gleam of gold embroideries on the
coat and the pallid patch of the face. "Yes, general. Take that chair
there."

General D'Hubert sat down.

"Yes, general," continued the arch-master in the arts of intrigue
and betrayal, whose duplicity as if at times intolerable to his
self-knowledge worked itself off in bu