Cambray repressed the sigh of relief which would have lightened his heart, and forced himself to say indifferently:
“Neither the young man nor the child concern me. It is his own family affair, in which I never meddled.”
“That is a move I cannot allow, M. Cambray!” sharply responded the marquis. “There are proofs that you are perfectly familiar with his affairs.”
Again Cambray smiled scornfully.
“You have evidently searched my lodgings.”
“We have done our duty, monsieur. We even tore up the floors, broke your furniture and ornaments,—for which we apologize,—and found nothing suspicious. Notwithstanding this, however, we know very well that you received a letter yesterday warning you of approaching danger. We know very well that you and your friend traced out the route of his flight; we have a witness who listened to your plans, and who fitted together the scraps of the torn letter of warning, and read it.”
“And who may this witness be?” queried Cambray.
“The child you picked up in the street.”
“What!” ejaculated Cambray, incredulously. “The little girl who sat shivering in the snow?”
“Yes; she is our most skilful detective, and has entrapped more than one conspirator,” triumphantly interrupted De Fervlans.
“Then”—and M. Cambray brought his hands together in a vehement gesture—“what I have believed a myth is really true. The police authorities really employ a number of beautiful women, handsome young men, and clever children to spy out and entrap suspected persons? ‘Cythera’s Brigade’ really exists?”
“You had the pleasure of meeting that celebrated brigade this morning,” replied De Fervlans.
“And those grateful men and women, who gathered about me with tearful eyes and sympathetic words—”
“Were members of Cythera’s Brigade,” supplemented the marquis.
“And the mistress of the house—the beautiful woman who fainted at sight of her child?”
“Is the fair Cythera’s substitute! She taught her little daughter the part she played so successfully.”
With sudden fury M. Cambray tore from his breast the ivory locket containing the little Amélie’s portrait, and was about to fling it on the floor and trample upon it. On second thought, he restrained himself, returned the locket to his breast, and muttered:
“The child is not to blame. Those who have made her such a monster are at fault. I will keep the miniature as a talisman for the future.”
“And now, M. Cambray,” pursued the marquis, “we want to learn what has become of your young friend. In fact, we must know what has become of him and his charge.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“You do know. According to the report from our witness, he has fled to a ‘country where order prevails, and where there are no police.’ Where is this country, M. Cambray?”
“In the moon, perhaps!” was the laconic response.
“Our witness heard these words from your own lips, and you pointed out the spot on the map to your friend.”
“Your witness dreamed all this!”
“M. Cambray, let us talk sensibly. You are a banker—at least, that is what you are registered in the police records. It is to the interest of the state to discover your secret. If you will reveal the hiding-place of your friend you may demand your own reward. Do you wish to be intrusted with the management of the state’s finances? Or—”
“I regret, monsieur le marquis,” interrupted Cambray, “that I must refuse so handsome an opportunity to enrich myself. Although I am a banker, I am no swindler.”
“Very good! Then you require no money. You are not a banker, M. Cambray; that is merely a fable. What is your ambition? Should you prefer to be a governor? Name any office; let it be what it may, you shall receive the appointment tomorrow.”
“Thank you again, monsieur. I must repeat what I said before: I know nothing about the future residence of the fugitive gentleman.”
“And if I tell you, M. Cambray, that your refusal may cost you your head?”
“I should reply,” returned Cambray, smiling calmly, as he took up the piece of bread lying on the table, “that it is a matter of perfect indifference to me if this daily portion of bread is enjoyed by some one else tomorrow. That which I do not know I cannot tell you.”
“Very well, then,” in a harsh tone rejoined De Fervlans. “I will tell you that Cambray the banker may say what is not true; but the nobleman cannot lie. Marquis d’Avoncourt, do you know to what country your friend has flown?”
At this question the old gentleman rose from his chair, drew himself up proudly, and gazing defiantly into the eyes of his questioner, replied:
“I do.”
Instantly De Fervlans’s manner changed. He became the embodiment of courtesy. He bowed with extreme politeness, then, slipping his arm familiarly through that of the prisoner, whispered insinuatingly:
“And what can we do to win this information from you?”
The gray-haired man released himself from De Fervlans’s arm, and answered with quiet irony:
“I will tell you what you can do: have my head cut off, and send it to M. Bichet, the celebrated professor of anatomy; perhaps he may be able to discover the information in my skull—if it is there! And now I beg you to leave me; I wish to be alone.”
De Fervlans took up his hat, but turned at the door to say, in a meaning tone:
“Marquis d’Avoncourt, we shall forget that you are a prisoner so long as it shall please you to remain obstinate. As for the fugitives, Cythera’s Brigade will capture them, sooner or later. Au revoir!”
That same night the old nobleman was removed to the prison at Ham.
CHAPTER IV
While the ensnared conspirators against the state were receiving sentence in one district of Paris, in another district the inhabitants were entertaining themselves.
Paris does not mourn very long. Paris is like the earth: one half of it is always illumined by the sun. On this fateful evening the incroyables and the merveilleuses were amusing themselves within the walls of the Palace of Narcissus.
The members of Cythera’s Brigade took great pains to make outsiders believe that they never troubled themselves about that half of the world which was in shadow—that half called politics.
In the salon of the fascinating Countess Themire Dealba not a word was heard relating to affairs of state. The beautiful women who were banded together to learn the secrets which threatened the present order of government worked in an imperceptible manner. They did not belong to the ordinary class of spies—those who collect every ill-natured word, every trifling occurrence of the street. No, indeed! They did nothing but amuse themselves. They were merry society women, trusty friends and confidantes. They moved in the best circles; no one ever saw them exchange a word with a police commissioner. If any one in the company happened to speak of anything even remotely connected with politics, some one quickly changed the subject to a more innocent theme; and if a stranger chanced to mention so delicate a matter as, say, the dinner which had been given by the emperor’s nephew at Very’s, which cost seventy-five thousand francs, while forty thousand laborers were starving, then the witty Countess Themire herself turned the conversation to the “toilet rivalry” between the Mesdames Tallien and Récamier.
On this particular evening the Countess Dealba was discussing the beauties of the latest opera with a few of her most intimate friends, when the Marquis de Fervlans approached, and, bending over her, whispered: “I must see you alone; find an opportunity to leave the room, and join me in the conservatory.”