“You, Monsieur, can do what I could not venture
to do; you can ask the son of Don Juan if, amid the
correspondence of his father, which he may have preserved,
there be any signed Marigny or Duval—any,
in short, which can throw light on this very obscure
complication of circumstances. A grand seigneur
would naturally be more complaisant to a man of your
station than he would be to an agent of police.
Don Juan’s son, inheriting his father’s
title, is Monsieur le Marquis de Rochebriant; and
permit me to add, that at this moment, as the journals
doubtless inform you, all Paris resounds with the
rumour of the coming war; and Monsieur de Rochebriant—who
is, as I have ascertained, now in Paris—it
may be difficult to find anywhere on earth a month
or two hence.—I have the honour, with profound
consideration, &c., &c., RENARD.”
The day after the receipt of this letter Graham Vane
was in Paris.
Among things indescribable is that which is called
“Agitation” in Paris— “Agitation”
without riot or violence—showing itself
by no disorderly act, no turbulent outburst.
Perhaps the cafes are more crowded; passengers in
the streets stop each other more often, and converse
in small knots and groups; yet, on the whole, there
is little externally to show how loudly the heart
of Paris is beating. A traveller may be passing
through quiet landscapes, unconscious that a great
battle is going on some miles off, but if he will
stop and put his ear to the ground he will recognise
by a certain indescribable vibration, the voice of
the cannon.
But at Paris an acute observer need not stop and put
his ear to the ground; he feels within himself a vibration—a
mysterious inward sympathy which communicates to the
individual a conscious thrill—when the
passions of the multitude are stirred, no matter how
silently.
Tortoni’s cafe was thronged when Duplessis and
Frederic Lemercier entered it: it was in vain
to order breakfast; no table was vacant either within
the rooms or under the awnings without.
But they could not retreat so quickly as they had
entered. On catching sight of the financier
several men rose and gathered round him, eagerly questioning:
“What do you think, Duplessis? Will any
insult to France put a drop of warm blood into the
frigid veins of that miserable Ollivier?”
“It is not yet clear that France has been insulted,
Messieurs,” replied Duplessis, phlegmatically.
“Bah! Not insulted! The very nomination
of a Hohenzollern to the crown of Spain was an insult—what
would you have more?”
“I tell you what it is, Duplessis,” said
the Vicomte de Breze, whose habitual light good temper
seemed exchanged for insolent swagger—“I
tell you what it is, your friend the Emperor has no
more courage than a chicken. He is grown old,
and infirm, and lazy; he knows that he can’t
even mount on horseback. But if, before this
day week, he has not declared war on the Prussians,
he will be lucky if he can get off as quietly as poor
Louis Philippe did under shelter of his umbrella, and
ticketed ‘Schmidt.’ Or could you
not, M. Duplessis, send him back to London in a bill
of exchange?”
