of
increased advantages to our trade?'"

"Our trade!" echoed the prefet, with a most contemptuous intonation on
the word.

"Ah, for those good old times, when there was none!" said the abbe, with
such a semblance of honest sincerity as drew an approving smile from the
old man.

"Hear this, Prefet," said De Beauvais: "'From the times of Colbert
to the present'--what think you? the allusion right royal, is it
not?--'From the times of Colbert our negotiations have been always
conducted in this manner.'"

"Sir, I beseech you read no more of that intolerable nonsense."

"And here," continued the marquis, "follows a special invocation of the
benediction of Heaven on the just efforts which France is called on to
make, to repress the insolent aggression of England. Abbe, this concerns
you."

"Of course," said he, meekly. "I am quite prepared to pray for the party
in power; if Heaven but leaves them there, I must conclude they deserve
it."

A doubtful look, as if he but half understood him, was the only reply
the old prefet made to this speech; at which the laughter of the others
could no longer be repressed, and burst forth most heartily.

"But let us read on. Whose style is this, think you? 'France possessed
within her dominion every nation from the North Sea to the Adriatic. And
how did she employ her power?--in restoring to Batavia self-government;
in giving liberty to Switzerland; and in ceding Venice to Austria, while
the troops at the very gates of Vienna are halted and repass the Rhine
once more. Are these the evidences of ambition? Are these the signs of
that overweening lust of territory with which England dares to reproach
us? And if such passions prevailed, what was easier than to have
indulged them? Was not Italy our own? Were not Batavia, Switzerland,
Portugal, all ours? But no, peace was the desire of the nation; peace
at any cost. The colony of St. Domingo, that immense territory, was not
conceived a sacrifice too great to secure such a blessing.'"

"Pardieu! De Beauvais, I can bear it no longer."

"You must let me give you the reverse of the medal. Hear now what
England has done."

"He writes well, at least for the taste of newspaper readers," said the
abbe, musingly; "but still he only understands the pen as he does the
sword,--it must be a weapon of attack."

"Who is the writer, then?" said I, in a half-whisper.

"Who!--can you doubt it?--Bonaparte himself. What other man in France
would ven