“Here is the money of which my brother robbed the State,” said he.

“What madness!” cried the Minister.  “It is impossible,” he said into the speaking-trumpet handed to him by the Marshal, “to manage this restitution.  We should be obliged to declare your brother’s dishonest dealings, and we have done everything to hide them.”

“Do what you like with the money; but the family shall not owe one sou of its fortune to a robbery on the funds of the State,” said the Count.

“I will take the King’s commands in the matter.  We will discuss it no further,” replied the Prince, perceiving that it would be impossible to conquer the old man’s sublime obstinacy on the point.

“Good-bye, Cottin,” said the old soldier, taking the Prince’s hand.  “I feel as if my soul were frozen—­”

Then, after going a step towards the door, he turned round, looked at the Prince, and seeing that he was deeply moved, he opened his arms to clasp him in them; the two old soldiers embraced each other.

“I feel as if I were taking leave of the whole of the old army in you,” said the Count.

“Good-bye, my good old comrade!” said the Minister.

“Yes, it is good-bye; for I am going where all our brave men are for whom we have mourned—­”

Just then Claude Vignon was shown in.  The two relics of the Napoleonic phalanx bowed gravely to each other, effacing every trace of emotion.

“You have, I hope, been satisfied by the papers,” said the Master of Appeals-elect.  “I contrived to let the Opposition papers believe that they were letting out our secrets.”

“Unfortunately, it is all in vain,” replied the Minister, watching Hulot as he left the room.  “I have just gone through a leave-taking that has been a great grief to me.  For, indeed, Marshal Hulot has not three days to live; I saw that plainly enough yesterday.  That man, one of those honest souls that are above proof, a soldier respected by the bullets in spite of his valor, received his death-blow—­there, in that armchair—­and dealt by my hand, in a letter!—­Ring and order my carriage.  I must go to Neuilly,” said he, putting the two hundred thousand francs into his official portfolio.

Notwithstanding Lisbeth’s nursing, Marshal Hulot three days later was a dead man.  Such men are the glory of the party they support.  To Republicans, the Marshal was the ideal of patriotism; and they all attended his funeral, which was followed by an immense crowd.  The army, the State officials, the Court, and the populace all came to do homage to this lofty virtue, this spotless honesty, this immaculate glory.  Such a last tribute of the people is not a thing to be had for the asking.