“In the end, then, Germany will offer him money?”

“That is the possible outlook.”

“But, suppose he went to work on his own responsibility?”

“In that case one would be justified in locking him up as a madman.  Do you know anything about Alpine butterflies?”

“Very little,” confessed the minister.

“There is often great danger in getting at them; but the pleasure is commensurate.”

“Are there not rare butterflies in the Amazonian swamps?” cynically.

“Ah, but this man has good blood in him; and if he flies at all he will fly high.  Think of this man fifty years ago; what a possibility he would have been!  But it is out of fashion to-day.  Well, monsieur, I must be off.  There is an old manuscript at the Bibliotheque I wish to inspect.”

“Concerning this matter?”

“Butterflies,” softly; “or, I should say, chrysalides.”

The subtle inference passed by the minister.  There were many other things to-ing and fro-ing in the busy corridors of his brain.  “I shall hear from you frequently?”

“As often as the situation requires.  By the way, I have an idea.  When I cable you the word butterfly, prepare yourself accordingly.  It will mean that the bomb is ready.”

“Good luck attend you, my savant,” said the minister, with a friendliness which was deep and genuine.  He had known Monsieur Ferraud in other days.  “And, above all, take care of yourself.”

“Trust me, Count.”  And the secret agent departed, to appear again in these chambers only when his work was done.

“A strange man,” mused the minister when he was alone.  “A still stranger business for a genuine scholar.  Is he really poor?  Does he do this work to afford him ease and time for his studies?  Or, better still, does he hide a great and singular patriotism under butterfly wings?  Patriotism?  More and more it becomes self-interest.  It is only when a foreign mob starts to tear down your house, that you become a patriot.”

Now the subject of these desultory musings went directly to the Bibliotheque Nationale.  The study he pursued was of deep interest to him; it concerned a butterfly of vast proportions and kaleidoscopic in color, long ago pinned away and labeled among others of lesser brilliancy.  It had cast a fine shadow in its brief flight.  But the species was now extinct, at least so the historian of this particular butterfly declared.  Hybrid?  Such a contingency was always possible.

“Suppose it does exist, as I and a few others very well know it does; what a fine joke it would be to see it fly into Paris!  But, no.  Idle dream!  Still, I shall wait and watch.  And now, suppose we pay a visit to Berlin and use blunt facts in place of diplomacy?  It will surprise them.”

Each German chancellor has become, in turn, the repository of such political secrets as fell under the eyes of his predecessor; and the chancellor who walked up and down before Monsieur Ferraud, possessed several which did not rest heavily upon his soul simply because he was incredulous, or affected that he was.