“But he will have to deal with Monk, who is quite as dangerous.  The brave brewer of whom we are speaking, was a visionary; he had moments of exaltation, of inflation, during which he ran over like an over-filled cask; and from the chinks there always escaped some drops of his thoughts, and by the sample the whole of his thought was to be made out.  Cromwell has thus allowed us more than ten times to penetrate into his very soul, when one would have conceived that soul to be enveloped in triple brass, as Horace had it.  But Monk!  Oh, sire, God defend you from ever having anything to transact politically with Monk.  It is he who has given me, in one year, all the gray hairs I have.  Monk is no fanatic; unfortunately he is a politician; he does not overflow, he keeps close together.  For ten years he has had his eyes fixed upon one object, and nobody has yet been able to ascertain what.  Every morning, as Louis XI. advised, he burns his nightcap.  Therefore, on the day when this plan, slowly and solitarily ripened, shall break forth, it will break forth with all the conditions of success which always accompany an unforeseen event.  That is Monk, sire, of whom, perhaps, you have never even heard — of whom, perhaps, you did not even know the name, before your brother, Charles II., who knows what he is, pronounced it before you.  He is a marvel of depth and tenacity, the two only things against which intelligence and ardor are blunted.  Sire, I had ardor when I was young; I always was intelligent.  I may safely boast of it, because I am reproached with it.  I have done very well with these two qualities, since, from the son of a fisherman of Piscina, I have become prime minister to the king of France; and in that position your majesty will perhaps acknowledge I have rendered some service to the throne of your majesty.  Well, sire, if I had met with Monk on my way, instead of Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, or Monsieur le Prince — well, we should have been ruined.  If you engage yourself rashly, sire, you will fall into the talons of this politic soldier.  The casque of Monk, sire, is an iron coffer, and no one has the key of it.  Therefore, near him, or rather before him, I bow, sire, for I have nothing but a velvet cap.”

“What do you think Monk wishes to do, then?”

“Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for I should be stronger than he; but with him, I am afraid to guess — to guess! — you understand my word? — for if I thought I had guessed, I should stop at an idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that idea.  Since that man has been in power yonder, I am like one of the damned in Dante whose neck Satan has twisted, and who walk forward looking around behind them.  I am traveling towards Madrid, but I never lose sight of London.  To guess, with that devil of a man, is to deceive one’s self and to deceive one’s self is to ruin one’s self.  God keep me from ever seeking to guess what he aims at; I confine