"Par Dieu!" said B----, "power, like misery, makes us acquainted with
strange bedfellows. I should like to hear what the First Consul can have
to say to Olivier Dalibard."

Fouche, who at that period was scheming for the return to his old
dignities of minister of police, smiled slightly, and answered: "In a
time when the air is filled with daggers, one who was familiar with
Robespierre has his uses. Olivier Dalibard is a remarkable man. He is
one of those children of the Revolution whom that great mother is bound
to save."

"By betraying his brethren?" said B----, dryly.

"I do not allow the inference. The simple fact is that Dalibard has
spent many years in England; he has married an Englishwoman of birth and
connections; he knows well the English language and the English people;
and just now when the First Consul is so anxious to approfondir the
popular feelings of that strange nation, with whose government he is
compelled to go to war, he may naturally have much to say to so acute an
observer as Olivier Dalibard."

"Um!" said B----; "with such patronage, Robespierre's friend should hold
his head somewhat higher!"

Meanwhile, Olivier Dalibard, crossing the gardens of the palace, took his
way to the Faubourg St. Germain. There was no change in the aspect of
this man: the same meditative tranquillity characterized his downward
eyes and bonded brow; the same precise simplicity of dress which had
pleased the prim taste of Robespierre gave decorum to his slender,
stooping form. No expression more cheerful, no footstep more elastic,