When Boufflers had argued and expostulated in vain, Villeroy was sent on the same errand, but had no better success.  A few days later Portland had a long private audience of Lewis.  Lewis declared that he was determined to keep his word, to preserve the peace of Europe, to abstain from everything which could give just cause of offence to England, but that, as a man of honour, as a man of humanity, he could not refuse shelter to an unfortunate King, his own first cousin.  Portland replied that nobody questioned His Majesty’s good faith; but that while Saint Germains was occupied by its present inmates it would be beyond even His Majesty’s power to prevent eternal plotting between them and the malecontents on the other side of the Straits of Dover, and that, while such plotting went on, the peace must necessarily be insecure.  The question was really not one of humanity.  It was not asked, it was not wished, that James should be left destitute.  Nay, the English government was willing to allow him an income larger than that which he derived from the munificence of France.  Fifty thousand pounds a year, to which in strictness of law he had no right, awaited his acceptance, if he would only move to a greater distance from the country which, while he was near it, could never be at rest.  If, in such circumstances, he refused to move, this was the strongest reason for believing that he could not safely be suffered to stay.  The fact that he thought the difference between residing at Saint Germains and residing at Avignon worth more than fifty thousand a year sufficiently proved that he had not relinquished the hope of being restored to his throne by means of a rebellion or of something worse.  Lewis answered that on that point his resolution was unalterable.  He never would compel his guest and kinsman to depart.  “There is another matter,” said Portland, “about which I have felt it my duty to make representations.  I mean the countenance given to the assassins.”  “I know nothing about assassins,” said Lewis.  “Of course,” answered the Ambassador, “your Majesty knows nothing about such men.  At least your Majesty does not know them for what they are.  But I can point them out, and can furnish ample proofs of their guilt.”  He then named Berwick.  For the English Government, which had been willing to make large allowances for Berwick’s peculiar position as long as he confined himself to acts of open and manly hostility, conceived that he had forfeited all claim to indulgence by becoming privy to the Assassination Plot.  This man, Portland said, constantly haunted Versailles.  Barclay, whose guilt was of a still deeper dye,—­Barclay, the chief contriver of the murderous ambuscade of Turnham Green,—­had found in France, not only an asylum, but an honourable military position.  The monk who was sometimes called Harrison and sometimes went by the alias of Johnson, but who, whether Harrison or Johnson, had been one of the earliest and one of the most bloodthirsty