Another time, again, matters became more serious. The riot--I don't
remember which it was now, there were so many of them!--became very
threatening at one moment. I see my father still, taking Casimir Perier
by the arm, and shouting in his ear, "Tell them to serve out ball
cartridge, ball cartridge, do you hear?" Casimir Perier, as excited as
himself, was rushing away, when he was stopped by an officer, who said,
"There are three students of the Ecole Polytechnique, sent to parley,
waiting below."

"Parley for whom? For the rioters? For the insurrection? Lay hands on
them! Lock them up in prison."

"But, sir," said the officer, himself a former student at the Ecole
Polytechnique, "I can't: I've given them my word!" But Casimir Perier
was not there to listen even just then I observed a man of woebegone
appearance, sitting in a corner of the drawing-room in which the
foregoing scene had taken place. One of my eldest brother's aides-de-
camp, General Marbot, was walking up and down in front of him, never
taking his eyes off him. "What are you doing there?" I asked the
general.

"I'm keeping my eye on that gentleman you see there."

"Who is he?"

"The Prefect of Police."

"Really?"

"They say he is playing us false"