Monsieur le Prefet. My friend, the Baron de Beauclair, is an
equerry to Her Majesty the Empress."

"Oh!" Evidently the Prefect knew and cared little about the Baron de
Beauclair. "But, Monsieur le General," he said, with a puzzled frown, "I
am still at a loss to understand you. Your course is apparently smooth.
Why do you want the help of an imperial order which, if it did no other
harm, would almost certainly set Monsieur de Sainfoy against you?"

Ratoneau's dark face flushed crimson. "Mille tonnerres, Monsieur le
Prefet," he growled out, "Monsieur de Sainfoy is against me already,
confound him! This afternoon he sent me a letter, flatly declining my
proposal for his daughter."

"Is it possible!"

The Prefect had some difficulty in hiding the sincere, if inconsistent,
joy that this news gave him.

"Well done!" he thought. "I should have expected nothing less. Ah! I
see, I see," he said aloud. "Monsieur de Sainfoy does not quite share
his wife's ambitions. It is unfortunate for you, certainly. But if you
wish to marry into an old family, there are others--"

Ratoneau stared at him and laughed.

"What do you take me for? Am I beaten so easily? No, monsieur!
Mademoiselle de Sainfoy is the woman I mean to marry. I admire that
white skin, that perfect distinction. You will not put me off with some
ugly little brown toad out of Brittany, I assure you!"

The Prefect laughed.

"But what is to be done? Unless you can gain her father's consent--"

"That is the favour you will do me, Monsieur le Prefet. You will write
to headquarters, do you see, and an order will be sent down--yes, an
order which her father would not disobey if he were a dozen dukes rolled
into one, instead of being what he is, a poor emigrant count helped back
into France by wiser men than himself! Voila, monsieur! Do you
understand me now?"

"Ah--yes, General, I understand you," said Monsieur de Mauves.

He leaned back in the corner of the marble seat, calm and deliberate,
gently stroking the little dog on his knee. Those long white fingers had
lifted the lid of Henriette's basket, those keen eyes, now thoughtfully
lowered, had seen the hiding-place of the Chouans in Monsieur Joseph's
wood; yet no harm had come to the Royalist conspirators. And now, when
an official of the Empire asked his help in a private matter, help
strictly legal, even within the limits of an imperial command, again
this blameworthy Prefect would not stir a finger. He was ru