Оноре де Бальзак
The Lesser Bourgeoisie
A man of Corentin’s power and experience, and who, moreover, knew to its slightest detail the horrible drama in which Lydie had lost her reason, had already, of course, taken in the situation, but it suited his purpose and his ideas to allow the clear light of evidence to pierce this darkness.
“Look, doctor,” said Lydie, unfastening the bundle, and putting the pins in her mouth as she did so, “don’t you see that she is growing thinner every day?”
La Peyrade could not answer; he kept his handkerchief over his face, and his breath came so fast from his chest that he was totally unable to utter a word.
Then, with one of those gestures of feverish impatience, to which her mental state predisposed her, she exclaimed, hastily: —
“But look at her doctor, look!” taking his arm violently and forcing him to show his features. “My God!” she cried, when she had looked him in the face.
Letting fall the linen bundle in her arms, she threw herself hastily backwards, and her eyes grew haggard. Passing her white hands rapidly over her forehead and through her hair, tossing it into disorder, she seemed to be making an effort to obtain from her memory some dormant recollection. Then, like a frightened mare, which comes to smell an object that has given it a momentary terror, she approached la Peyrade slowly, stooping to look into his face, which he kept lowered, while, in the midst of a silence inexpressible, she examined him steadily for several seconds. Suddenly a terrible cry escaped her breast; she ran for refuge into the arms of Corentin, and pressing herself against him with all her force, she exclaimed: —
“Save me! save me! It is he! the wretch! It is he who did it!”
And, with her finger pointed at la Peyrade, she seemed to nail the miserable object of her terror to his place.
After this explosion, she muttered a few disconnected words, and her eyes closed; Corentin felt the relaxing of all the muscles by which she had held him as in a vice the moment before, and he took her in his arms and laid her on the sofa, insensible.
“Do not stay here, monsieur,” said Corentin. “Go into my study; I will come to you presently.”
A few minutes later, after giving Lydie into the care of Katte and Bruneau, and despatching Perrache for Doctor Bianchon, Corentin rejoined la Peyrade.
“You see now, monsieur,” he said with solemnity, “that in pursuing with a sort of passion the idea of this marriage, I was following, in a sense, the ways of God.”
“Monsieur,” said la Peyrade, with compunction, “I will confess to you – ”
“Useless,” said Corentin; “you can tell me nothing that I do not know; I, on the contrary, have much to tell you. Old Peyrade, your uncle, in the hope of earning a POT for this daughter whom he idolized, entered into a dangerous private enterprise, the nature of which I need not explain. In it he made enemies; enemies who stopped at nothing, – murder, poison, rape. To paralyze your uncle’s action by attacking him in his dearest spot, Lydie was, not abducted, but enticed from her home and taken to a house apparently respectable, where for ten days she was kept concealed. She was not much alarmed by this detention, being told that it was done at her father’s wish, and she spent her time with her music – you remember, monsieur, how she sang?”
“Oh!” exclaimed la Peyrade, covering his face with his hands.
“I told you yesterday that you might perhaps have more upon your conscience than the Thuillier house. But you were young; you had just come from your province, with that brutality, that frenzy of Southern blood in your veins which flings itself upon such an occasion. Besides, your relationship became known to those who were preparing the ruin of this new Clarissa Harlowe, and I am willing to believe than an abler and better man than you might not have escaped the entanglement into which you fell. Happily, Providence has granted that there is nothing absolutely irreparable in this horrible history. The same poison, according to the use that is made of it, may give either death or health.”
“But, monsieur,” said la Peyrade, “shall I not always be to her an object of horror?”
“The doctor, monsieur,” said Katte, opening the door.
“How is Mademoiselle Lydie?” asked la Peyrade, eagerly.
“Very calm,” replied Katte. “Just now, when we put her to bed, – though she did not want to go, saying she felt well, – I took her the bundle of linen, but she told me to take it away, and asked what I meant her to do with it.”
“You see,” said Corentin, grasping the Provencal’s hand, “you are the lance of Achilles.”
And he left the room with Katte to receive Doctor Bianchon.
Left alone, Theodose was a prey to thoughts which may perhaps be imagined. After a while the door opened, and Bruneau, the old valet, ushered in Cerizet. Seeing la Peyrade, the latter exclaimed: —
“Ha! ha! I knew it! I knew you would end by seeing du Portail. And the marriage, – how does that come on?”
“What are you doing here?” asked la Peyrade.
“Something that concerns you; or rather, something that we must do together. Du Portail, who is too busy to attend to business just now, has sent me in here to see you, and consult as to the best means of putting a spoke in Thuillier’s election; it seems that the government is determined to prevent his winning it. Have you any ideas about it?”
“No,” replied la Peyrade; “and I don’t feel in the mood just now to be imaginative.”
“Well, here’s the situation,” said Cerizet. “The government has another candidate, which it doesn’t yet produce, because the ministerial negotiations with him have been rather difficult. During this time Thuillier’s chances have been making headway. Minard, on whom they counted to create a diversion, sits, the stupid fool, in his corner; the seizure of that pamphlet has given your blockhead of a protege a certain perfume of popularity. In short, the ministry are afraid he’ll be elected, and nothing could be more disagreeable to them. Pompous imbeciles, like Thuillier, are horribly embarrassing in the Opposition; they are pitchers without handles; you can’t take hold of them anywhere.”
“Monsieur Cerizet,” said la Peyrade, beginning to assume a protecting tone, and wishing to discover his late associate’s place in Corentin’s confidence, “you seem to know a good deal about the secret intentions of the government; have you found your way to a certain desk in the rue de Grenelle?”
“No. All that I tell you,” said Cerizet, “I get from du Portail.”
“Ah ca!” said la Peyrade, lowering his voice, “who is du Portail? You seem to have known him for some time. A man of your force ought to have discovered the real character of a man who seems to me to be rather mysterious.”
“My friend,” replied Cerizet, “du Portail is a pretty strong man. He’s an old slyboots, who has had some post, I fancy, in the administration of the national domain, or something of that kind, under government; in which, I think, he must have been employed in the departments suppressed under the Empire.”
“Yes?” said la Peyrade.
“That’s where I think he made his money,” continued Cerizet; “and being a shrewd old fellow, and having a natural daughter to marry, he has concocted this philanthropic tale of her being the daughter of an old friend named Peyrade; and your name being the same may have given him the idea of fastening upon you – for, after all, he has to marry her to somebody.”
“Yes, that’s all very well; but his close relations with the government, and the interest he takes in elections, how do you explain all that?”
“Naturally enough,” replied Cerizet. “Du Portail is a man who loves money, and likes to handle it; he has done Rastignac, that great manipulator of elections, who is, I think, his compatriot, several signal services as an amateur; Rastignac, in return, gives him information, obtained through Nucingen, which enables him to gamble at the Bourse.”
“Did he himself tell you all this?” asked la Peyrade.
“What do you take me for?” returned Cerizet. “With that worthy old fellow, from whom I have already wormed a promise of thirty thousand francs, I play the ninny; I flatten myself to nothing. But I’ve made Bruneau talk, that old valet of his. You can safely ally yourself to his family, my dear fellow; du Portail is powerfully rich; he’ll get you made sub-prefect somewhere; and thence to a prefecture and a fortune is but one step.”
“Thanks for the information,” said la Peyrade; “at least, I shall know on which foot to hop. But you yourself, how came you to know him?”
“Oh! that’s quite a history; by my help he was able to get back a lot of diamonds which had been stolen from him.”
At this moment Corentin entered the room.
“All is well,” he said to la Peyrade. “There are signs of returning reason. Bianchon, to whom I have told all, wishes to confer with you; therefore, my dear Monsieur Cerizet, we will postpone until this evening, if you are willing, our little study over the Thuillier election.”
“Well, so here you have him, at last!” said Cerizet, slapping la Peyrade’s shoulder.
“Yes,” said Corentin, “and you know what I promised; you may rely on that.”
Cerizet departed joyful.
CHAPTER XVI. CHECKMATE TO THUILLIER
The day after that evening, when Corentin, la Peyrade, and Cerizet were to have had their consultation in reference to the attack on Thuillier’s candidacy, the latter was discussing with his sister Brigitte the letter in which Theodose declined the hand of Celeste, and his mind seemed particularly to dwell on the postscript where it was intimated that la Peyrade might not continue the editor of the “Echo de la Bievre.” At this moment Henri, the “male domestic,” entered the room to ask if his master would receive Monsieur Cerizet.
Thuillier’s first impulse was to deny himself to that unwelcome visitor. Then, thinking better of it, he reflected that if la Peyrade suddenly left him in the lurch, Cerizet might possibly prove a precious resource. Consequently, he ordered Henri to show him in. His manner, however, was extremely cold, and in some sort expectant. As for Cerizet, he presented himself without the slightest embarrassment and with the air of a man who had calculated all the consequences of the step he was taking.
“Well, my dear monsieur,” he began, “I suppose by this time you have been posted as to the Sieur la Peyrade.”
“What may you mean by that?” said Thuillier, stiffly.
“Well, the man,” replied Cerizet, “who, after intriguing to marry your goddaughter, breaks off the marriage abruptly – as he will, before long, break that lion’s-share contract he made you sign about his editorship – can’t be, I should suppose, the object of the same blind confidence you formerly reposed in him.”
“Ah!” said Thuillier, hastily, “then do you know anything about la Peyrade’s intention of leaving the newspaper?”
“No,” said the other; “on the terms I now am with him, you can readily believe we don’t see each other; still less should I receive his confidences. But I draw the induction from the well-known character of the person, and you may be sure that when he finds it for his interest to leave you, he’ll throw you away like an old coat – I’ve passed that way, and I speak from experience.”
“Then you must have had some difficulties with him before you joined my paper?” said Thuillier, interrogatively.
“Parbleu!” replied Cerizet; “the affair of this house which he helped you to buy was mine; I started that hare. He was to put me in relation with you, and make me the principal tenant of the house. But the unfortunate affair of that bidding-in gave him a chance to knock me out of everything and get all the profits for himself.”
“Profits!” exclaimed Thuillier. “I don’t see that he got anything out of that transaction, except the marriage which he now refuses – ”
“But,” interrupted Cerizet, “there’s the ten thousand francs he got out of you on pretence of the cross which you never received, and the twenty-five thousand he owes to Madame Lambert, for which you went security, and which you will soon have to pay like a good fellow.”
“What’s this I hear?” cried Brigitte, up in arms; “twenty-five thousand francs for which you have given security?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” interposed Cerizet; “behind that sum which this woman had lent him there was a mystery, and if I had not laid my hand on the true explanation, there would certainly have been a very dirty ending to it. La Peyrade was clever enough not only to whitewash himself in Monsieur Thuillier’s eyes, but to get him to secure the debt.”
“But,” said Thuillier, “how do you know that I did give security for that debt, if you have not seen him since then?”
“I know it from the woman herself, who tells the whole story now she is certain of being paid.”
“Well,” said Brigitte to her brother, “a pretty business you are engaged in!”
“Mademoiselle,” said Cerizet, “I only meant to warn Monsieur Thuillier a little. I think myself that you are sure to be paid. Without knowing the exact particulars of this new marriage, I am certain the family would never allow him to owe you to such mortifying debts; if necessary, I should be very glad to intervene.”
“Monsieur,” said Thuillier, stiffly, “thanking you for your officious intervention, permit me to say that it surprises me a little, for the manner in which we parted would not have allowed me to hope it.”
“Ah ca!” said Cerizet; “you don’t think I was angry with you for that, do you? I pitied you, that was all. I saw you under the spell, and I said to myself: ‘Leave him to learn la Peyrade by experience.’ I knew very well that the day of justice would dawn for me, and before long, too. La Peyrade is a man who doesn’t make you wait for his questionable proceedings.”
“Allow me to say,” remarked Thuillier, “that I do not consider the rupture of the marriage we had proposed a questionable proceeding. The matter was arranged, I may say, by mutual consent.”
“And the trick he is going to play you by leaving the paper in the lurch, and the debt he has saddled you with, what are they?”
“Monsieur Cerizet,” continued Thuillier, still holding himself on the reserve, “as I have said more than once to la Peyrade, no man is indispensable; and if the editorship of my paper becomes vacant, I feel confident that I shall at once meet with persons very eager to offer me their services.”
“Is it for me you say that?” asked Cerizet. “Well, you haven’t hit the nail; if you did me the honor to want my services it would be impossible for me to grant them. I have long been disgusted with journalism. I let la Peyrade, I hardly know why, persuade me to make this campaign with you; it didn’t turn out happily, and I have vowed to myself to have no more to do with newspapers. It was about another matter altogether than I came to speak to you.”
“Ah!” said Thuillier.
“Yes,” continued Cerizet, “remembering the business-like manner in which you managed the affair of this house in which you do me the honor to receive me, I thought I could not do better than to call your attention to a matter of the same kind which I have just now in hand. But I shall not do as la Peyrade did, – make a bargain for the hand of your goddaughter, and profess great friendship and devotion to you personally. This is purely business, and I expect to make my profit out of it. Now, as I still desire to become the principal tenant of this house, – the letting of which must be a care and a disappointment to mademoiselle, for I saw as I came along that the shops were still unrented, – I think that this lease to me, if you will make it, might be reckoned in to my share of the profits. You see, monsieur, that the object of my visit has nothing to do with the newspaper.”
“What is this new affair?” said Brigitte; “that’s the first thing to know.”
“It relates to a farm in Beauce, which has just been sold for a song, and it is placed in my hands to resell, at an advance, but a small one; you could really buy it, as the saying is, for a bit of bread.”
And Cerizet went on to explain the whole mechanism of the affair, which we need not relate here, as no one but Brigitte would take any interest in it. The statement was clear and precise, and it took close hold on the old maid’s mind. Even Thuillier himself, in spite of his inward distrust, was obliged to own that the affair had all the appearance of a good speculation.
“Only,” said Brigitte, “we must first see the farm ourselves.”
This, the reader will remember, was her answer to la Peyrade when he first proposed the purchase of the house at the Madeleine.
“Nothing is easier than that,” said Cerizet. “I myself want to see it, and I have been intending to make a little excursion there. If you like, I’ll be at your door this afternoon with a post-chaise, and to-morrow morning, very early, we can examine the farm, breakfast at some inn near by, and be back in time for dinner.”
“A post-chaise!” said Brigitte, “that’s very lordly; why not take the diligence?”
“Diligences are so uncertain,” replied Cerizet; “you never know at what time they will get to a place. But you need not think about the expense, for I should otherwise go alone, and I am only too happy to offer you two seats in my carriage.”
To misers, small gains are often determining causes in great matters; after a little resistance “pro forma,” Brigitte ended by accepting the proposal, and three hours later the trio were on the road to Chartres, Cerizet having advised Thuillier not to let la Peyrade know of his absence, lest he might take some unfair advantage of it.
The next day, by five o’clock, the party had returned, and the brother and sister, who kept their opinions to themselves in presence of Cerizet, were both agreed that the purchase was a good one. They had found the soil of the best quality, the buildings in perfect repair, the cattle looked sound and healthy; in short, this idea of becoming the mistress of rural property seemed to Brigitte the final consecration of opulence.
“Minard,” she remarked, “has only a town-house and invested capital, whereas we shall have all that and a country-place besides; one can’t be really rich without it.”
Thuillier was not sufficiently under the charm of that dream – the realization of which was, in any case, quite distant – to forget, even for a moment, the “Echo de la Bievre” and his candidacy. No sooner had he reached home than he asked for the morning’s paper.
“It has not come,” said the “male domestic.”
“That’s a fine distribution, when even the owner of the paper is not served!” cried Thuillier, discontentedly.
Although it was nearly dinner-time, and after his journey he would much rather have taken a bath than rush to the rue Saint-Dominique, Thuillier ordered a cab and drove at once to the office of the “Echo.”
There a fresh disappointment met him. The paper “was made,” as they say, and all the employees had departed, even la Peyrade. As for Coffinet, who was not to be found at his post of office-boy, nor yet at his other post of porter, he had gone “of an errand,” his wife said, taking the key of the closet in which the remaining copies of the paper were locked up. Impossible, therefore, to procure the number which the unfortunate proprietor had come so far to fetch.
To describe Thuillier’s indignation would be impossible. He marched up and down the room, talking aloud to himself, as people do in moments of excitement.
“I’ll turn them all out!” he cried. And we are forced to omit the rest of the furious objurgation.
As he ended his anathema a rap was heard on the door.
“Come in!” said Thuillier, in a tone that depicted his wrath and his frantic impatience.
The door opened, and Minard rushed precipitately into his arms.
“My good, my excellent friend!” cried the mayor of the eleventh arrondissement, concluding his embrace with a hearty shake of the hand.
“Why! what is it?” said Thuillier, unable to comprehend the warmth of this demonstration.
“Ah! my dear friend,” continued Minard, “such an admirable proceeding! really chivalrous! most disinterested! The effect, I assure you, is quite stupendous in the arrondissement.”
“But what, I say?” cried Thuillier, impatiently.
“The article, the whole action,” continued Minard, “so noble, so elevated!”
“But what article? what action?” said the proprietor of the “Echo,” getting quite beside himself.
“The article of this morning,” said Minard.
“The article of this morning?”
“Ah ca! did you write it when you were asleep; or, like Monsieur Jourdain doing prose, do you do heroism without knowing it?”
“I! I haven’t written any article!” cried Thuillier. “I have been away from Paris for a day, and I don’t even know what is in this morning’s paper; and the office-boy is not here to give me a copy.”
“I have one,” said Minard, pulling the much desired paper from his pocket. “If the article is not years you have certainly inspired it; in any case, the deed is done.”
Thuillier hurriedly unfolded the sheet Minard had given him, and devoured rather than read the following article: —
Long enough has the proprietor of this regenerated journal submitted without complaint and without reply to the cowardly insinuations with which a venal press insults all citizens who, strong in their convictions, refuse to pass beneath the Caudine Forks of power. Long enough has a man, who has already given proofs of devotion and abnegation in the important functions of the aedility of Paris, allowed these sheets to call him ambitious and self-seeking. Monsieur Jerome Thuillier, strong in his dignity, has suffered such coarse attacks to pass him with contempt. Encouraged by this disdainful silence, the stipendiaries of the press have dared to write that this journal, a work of conviction and of the most disinterested patriotism, was but the stepping-stone of a man, the speculation of a seeker for election. Monsieur Jerome Thuillier has held himself impassible before these shameful imputations because justice and truth are patient, and he bided his time to scotch the reptile. That time has come.
“That deuce of a Peyrade!” said Thuillier, stopping short; “how he does touch it off!”
“It is magnificent!” cried Minard.
Reading aloud, Thuillier continued: —
Every one, friends and enemies alike, can bear witness that Monsieur Jerome Thuillier has done nothing to seek a candidacy which was offered to him spontaneously.
“That’s evident,” said Thuillier, interrupting himself. Then he resumed: —
But, since his sentiments are so odiously misrepresented, and his intentions so falsely travestied, Monsieur Jerome Thuillier owes it to himself, and above all to the great national party of which he is the humblest soldier, to give an example which shall confound the vile sycophants of power.
“It is fine, the way la Peyrade poses me!” said Thuillier, pausing once more in his reading. “I see now why he didn’t send me the paper; he wanted to enjoy my surprise – ‘confound the vile sycophants of power!’ how fine that is!”
After which reflection, he continued: —
Monsieur Thuillier was so far from founding this journal of dynastic opposition to support and promote his election that, at the very moment when the prospects of that election seem most favorable to himself and most disastrous to his rivals, he here declares publicly, and in the most formal, absolute, and irrevocable manner that he renounces his candidacy.
“What?” cried Thuillier, thinking he had read wrong, or had misunderstood what he read.
“Go on! go on!” said the mayor of the eleventh.
Then, as Thuillier, with a bewildered air, seemed not disposed to continue his reading, Minard took the paper from his hands and read the rest of the article himself, beginning where the other had left off: —
Renounces his candidacy; and he strongly urges the electors to transfer to Monsieur Minard, mayor of the eleventh arrondissement and his friend and colleague in his municipal functions, all the votes with which they seemed about to honor him.
“But this is infamous!” cried Thuillier, recovering his speech; “you have bought that Jesuit la Peyrade.”
“So,” said Minard, stupefied by Thuillier’s attitude, “the article was not agreed upon between you?”
“The wretch has profited by my absence to slip it into the paper; I understand now why he prevented a copy from reaching me to-day.”
“My dear friend,” said Minard, “what you tell me will seem incredible to the public.”
“I tell you it is treachery; it is an abominable trap. Renounce my candidacy! – why should I?”
“You understand, my dear friend,” said Minard, “that I am truly sorry if your confidence has been abused, but I have just issued my circular manifesto; the die is cast, and luck to the lucky now.”
“Leave me,” said Thuillier; “it is a comedy for which you have paid.”
“Monsieur Thuillier,” said Minard, in a threatening voice, “I advise you not to repeat those words, unless you are ready to give me satisfaction for them.”
Happily for Thuillier, who, we may remember, had made his profession of faith as to civic courage some time before, he was relieved from answering by Coffinet, who now opened the door of the editorial sanctum, and announced: —
“Messieurs the electors of the twelfth arrondissement.”
The arrondissement was represented on this occasion by five persons. An apothecary, chairman of the deputation, proceeded to address Thuillier in the following terms: —
“We have come, monsieur, after taking cognizance of an article inserted this morning in the ‘Echo de la Bievre,’ to inquire of you what may be precisely the origin and bearing of that article; thinking it incredible that, having solicited our suffrages, you should, on the eve of this election, and from a most mistaken puritanism, have cast disorder and disunion into our ranks, and probably have caused the triumph of the ministerial candidate. A candidate does not belong to himself; he belongs to the electors who have promised to honor him with their votes. But,” continued the orator, casting his eye at Minard, “the presence in these precincts of the candidate whom you have gone out of your way to recommend to us, indicates that between you and him there is connivance; and I have no need to ask who is being here deceived.”
“No, messieurs, no,” said Thuillier; “I have not renounced my candidacy. That article was written and printed without my knowledge or consent. To-morrow you will see the denial of it in the same paper, and you will also learn that the infamous person who has betrayed my confidence is no longer the editor of this journal.”
“Then,” said the orator of the deputation, “in spite of your declaration to the contrary, you do continue to be the candidate of the Opposition?”
“Yes, messieurs, until death; and I beg you to use your utmost influence in the quarter to neutralize the effect of this deliberate falsehood until I am able to officially present the most formal disavowal.”
“Hear! hear!” said the electors.
“And, as for the presence of Monsieur Minard, my competitor, in these precincts, I have not invited it; and at the moment when you entered this room, I was engaged in a very sharp and decided explanation with him.”
“Hear! hear!” said the electors again.
Then, after cordially shaking the hand of the apothecary, Thuillier conducted the deputation to the outer door of the apartment; after which, returning to the editorial sanctum, he said: —
“My dear Minard, I withdraw the words which wounded you; but you can see now what justification I had for my indignation.”
Here Coffinet again opened the door and announced: —
“Messieurs the electors of the eleventh arrondissement.”
The arrondissement was represented this time by seven persons. A linen-draper, chairman of the delegation, addressed Thuillier in the following speech: —
“Monsieur, it is with sincere admiration that we have learned this morning from the columns of your paper, the great civic act by which you have touched all hearts. You have shown, in thus retiring, a most unusual disinterestedness, and the esteem of your fellow-citizens – ”
“Excuse me,” said Thuillier, interrupting him, “I cannot allow you to continue; the article about which you are so good as to congratulate me, was inserted by mistake.”
“What!” said the linen-draper; “then do you not retire? Can you suppose that in opposition to the candidacy of Monsieur Minard (whose presence in these precincts seems to me rather singular) you have the slightest chance of success?”
“Monsieur,” said Thuillier, “have the goodness to request the electors of your arrondissement to await the issue of to-morrow’s paper, in which I shall furnish categorical explanations of the most distinct character. The article to-day is the result of a misunderstanding.”
“It will be a sad pity, monsieur,” said the linen-draper, “if you lose this occasion to place yourself in the eyes of your fellow-citizens beside the Washingtons and other great men of antiquity.”
“I say again, to-morrow, messieurs,” said Thuillier. “I am none the less sensible to the honor you do me, and I trust that when you know the whole truth, I shall not suffer in your esteem.”
“A pretty queer mess this seems to be,” said the voice of an elector.
“Yes,” said another; “it looks as if they meant to bamboozle us.”
“Messieurs, messieurs!” cried the chairman, putting a stop to the outbreak; “to-morrow – we will wait until to-morrow for the promised explanations.”
Whereupon, the deputation retired.
It is not likely that Thuillier would have accompanied them beyond the door of the sanctum, but in any case he was prevented by the sudden entrance of la Peyrade.
“I have just come from your house, my dear fellow,” said the Provencal; “they told me I should find you here.”
“You have come, doubtless, for the purpose of explaining to me the strange article you allowed yourself to insert in my name.”
“Precisely,” said la Peyrade. “The remarkable man whom you know, and whose powerful influence you have already felt, confided to me yesterday, in your interests, the plans of the government, and I saw at once that your defeat was inevitable. I wished therefore to secure to you an honorable and dignified retreat. There was no time to lose; you were absent from Paris, and therefore – ”