as
Republican as he could be, pleased him by her democratic opinions, and
she flattered him with amazing dexterity; for the last fortnight the
old man, whose house was better kept, and who was cared for as a child
by its mother, had begun to regard Lisbeth as a part of what he had
dreamed of.

"My dear Marshal," she shouted, following him out on to the steps,
"pull up the windows, do not sit in a draught, to oblige me!"

The Marshal, who had never been so cosseted in his life, went off
smiling at Lisbeth, though his heart was aching.

At the same hour Baron Hulot was quitting the War Office to call on
his chief, Marshal the Prince de Wissembourg, who had sent for him.
Though there was nothing extraordinary in one of the Generals on the
Board being sent for, Hulot's conscience was so uneasy that he fancied
he saw a cold and sinister expression in Mitouflet's face.

"Mitouflet, how is the Prince?" he asked, locking the door of his
private room and following the messenger who led the way.

"He must have a crow to pluck with you, Monsieur le Baron," replied
the man, "for his face is set at stormy."

Hulot turned pale, and said no more; he crossed the anteroom and
reception rooms, and, with a violently beating heart, found himself at
the door of the Prince's private study.

The chief, at this time seventy years old, with perfectly white hair,
and the tanned complexion of a soldier of that age, commanded
attention by a brow so vast that imagination saw in it a field of
battle. Under this dome, crowned with snow, sparkled a pair of eyes,
of the Napoleon blue, usually sad-looking and full of bitter thoughts
and regrets, their fire overshadowed by the penthouse of the strongly
projecting brow. This man, Bernadotte's rival, had hoped to find his
seat on a throne. But those eyes could flash formidable lightnings
when they expressed strong feelings.

Then, his voice, always somewhat hollow, rang with strident tones.
When he was angry, the Prince was a soldier once more; he spoke the
language of Lieutenant Cottin; he spared nothing--nobody. Hulot d'Ervy
found the old lion, his hair shaggy like a mane, standing by the
fireplace, his brows knit, his back against the mantel-shelf, and his
eyes apparently fixed on vacancy.

"Here! At your orders, Prince!" said Hulot, affecting a graceful ease
of manner.

The Marshal looked hard at the Baron, without saying a word, during
the time it took him to come from the door to within