ilder-looking person, a Monsieur de Bourmont, a distant cousin of
the well-known leader of that name, who doubted whether the peasants
would rise as readily as Cesar d'Ombre expected.

"I tell you," he said, "they hate, they detest the Empire. Look at their
desolate homes, their deserted fields! I tell you, the women of France
alone, if they had a leader, would drive the usurper out of the
country."

"There is your mission, then, dear Cesar," said the Vicomte des Barres,
a delicate, sarcastic-looking man of middle age. "March on Paris with
your phalanx of Amazons."

"Cesar is right, nevertheless, gentlemen," growled the Comte d'Ombre,
the young man's father, the oldest of the party. "It is energy, it is
courage, that our cause wants. And I go farther than my son goes. Take
the Prefect and the General by all means--excellent idea--"

"If you can catch them--" murmured Monsieur des Barres, and was frowned
upon furiously by Cesar d'Ombre.

The Comte was rather deaf. "What? What?" he asked sharply, being aware
of the interruption.

"Nothing, monsieur, nothing!" cried their host, with one spring from the
fireplace to the old man's chair--"and what would you do, monsieur, with
the Prefect and the General? I am dying of curiosity."

Monsieur d'Ombre stared up into the sweet, birdlike face, which bent
over him with flashing eyes and a delighted smile.

"Do? I should shoot them on the spot," he said. "They are traitors: I
would treat all traitors the same. Yes, I know the Prefect is a friend
of your brother's--of your own, possibly. I know my son and I are your
guests, too. Never mind! Any other conduct would be cowardly and
abominable. No member of my family would ever be guilty of opportunism,
and remain in my family. Those two men have done more harm in this
province than Napoleon Buonaparte and all his laws and police. They
never tried to make his government popular. The Prefect, at least, has
done this--I know nothing about the General."

"A wooden image of his master," said Monsieur des Barres.

Monsieur Joseph returned, rather sobered, to his hearth rug. "Shoot
them, well, well!" he muttered. "A strong measure, but possibly politic.
It is what one would _like_ to do, of course, officially. Not
personally--no--though Monsieur d'Ombre may be right. It is a crime, no
doubt, to make the Empire popular. I am afraid my poor brother has tried
to do the same, and succeeded--yes, succeeded a little."

"My father is qu