“Parbleu! at the Tuileries.”

“And his successor?”

“In exile—­Oh!  I see what you are coming to.”

“My conclusion is certainly not difficult to guess.  But have you fully remarked the deduction to be drawn from that royal career?—­for which I myself feel the greatest respect.  Louis XVIII. was not a citizen king.  He granted this Charter, but he never consented to it.  Born nearer to the throne than the prince whose regrettable tendencies I mentioned just now, he might naturally share more deeply still the ideas, the prejudices, and the infatuations of the court; in person he was ridiculous (a serious princely defect in France); he bore the brunt of a new and untried regime; he succeeded a government which had intoxicated the people with that splendid gilded smoke called glory; and if he was not actually brought back to France by foreigners, at any rate he came as the result of the armed invasion of Europe.  Now, shall I tell you why, in spite of all these defects and disadvantages, in spite, too, of the ceaseless conspiracy kept up against his government, it was given to him to die tranquilly in his bed at the Tuileries?”

“Because he had made himself a constitutional king,” said Rastignac, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.  “But do you mean to say that we are not that?”

“In the letter, yes; in the spirit, no.  When Louis XVIII. gave his confidence to a minister, he gave it sincerely and wholly.  He did not cheat him; he played honestly into his hand,—­witness the famous ordinance of September 5, and the dissolution of the Chamber, which was more Royalist than himself,—­a thing he had the wisdom not to desire.  Later, a movement of public opinion shook the minister who had led him along that path; that minister was his favorite, his son, as he called him.  No matter; yielding to the constitutional necessity, he bravely sent him to foreign parts, after loading him with crosses and titles,—­in short, with everything that could soften the pain of his fall; and he did not watch and manoeuvre surreptitiously to bring him back to power, which that minister never regained.”

“For a man who declares he does not hate us,” said Rastignac, “you treat us rather roughly.  According to you we are almost faithless to the constitutional compact, and our policy, to your thinking ambiguous and tortuous, gives us a certain distant likeness to Monsieur Doublemain in the ‘Mariage de Figaro.’”

“I do not say that the evil is as deep as that,” replied Sallenauve; “perhaps, after all, we are simply a faiseur,—­using the word, be it understood, in the sense of a meddler, one who wants to have his finger in everything.”

“Ah! monsieur, but suppose we are the ablest politician in the country.”

“If we are, it does not follow that our kingdom ought not to have the chance of becoming as able as ourselves.”

“Parbleu!” cried Rastignac, in the tone of a man who comes to the climax of a conversation, “I wish I had power to realize a wish—­”