Charras questioned them.  They had served when quite young, from 1813.  Thus they had shared the bivouac of Napoleon; now they ate the same bread as Vidocq.  The soldier brought to such a sorry pass as this is a sad sight.

The pocket of one of them was bulged out with something which he was hiding there.

When this man crossed the station in company with Charras, a lady traveller said,—­

“Has he got M. Thiers in his pocket?”

What the police agent was hiding was a pair of pistols.  Under their long, buttoned-up and doubled-breasted frock coats these men were armed.  They were ordered to treat “those gentlemen” with the most profound respect, but in certain circumstances to blow out their brains.

The prisoners had each been informed that in the eyes of the different authorities whom they would meet on the road they would pass for foreigners, Swiss or Belgians, expelled on account of their political opinions, and that the police agents would keep their title of police agents, and would represent themselves as charged with reconducting these foreigners to the frontier.

Two-thirds of the journey were accomplished without any hindrance.  At Valenciennes an incident occurred.

The coup d’etat having succeeded, zeal reigned paramount.  No task was any longer considered despicable.  To denounce was to please; zeal is one of the forms of servitude towards which people lean the most willingly.  The general became a common soldier, the prefect became a commissary of police, the commissary of police became a police spy.

The commissary of police at Valenciennes himself superintended the inspection of passports.  For nothing in the world would he have deputed this important office to a subordinate inspector.  When they presented him the passport of the so-called Leblanc, he looked the so-called Leblanc full in the face, started, and exclaimed,—­

“You are General Changarnier!”

“That is no affair of mine,” said the General.

Upon this the two keepers of the General protested and exhibited their papers, perfectly drawn up in due form.

“Mr. Commissary, we are Government agents.  Here are our proper passports.”

“Improper ones,” said the General.

The Commissary shook his head.  He had been employed in Paris, and had been frequently sent to the headquarters of the staff at the Tuileries, to General Changarnier.  He knew him very well.

“This is too much!” exclaimed the police agents.  They blustered, declared that they were police functionaries on a special service, that they had instructions to conduct to the frontier this Leblanc, expelled for political reasons, swore by all the gods, and gave their word of honor that the so-called Leblanc was really named Leblanc.

“I do not much believe in words of honor,” said the Commissary.

“Honest Commissary,” muttered Changarnier, “you are right.  Since the 2d of December words of honor and oaths are no more than worthless paper money.”