“It is at your service,” said Marouin.

“Right.  My uncle shall sleep there to-night.”

“But at least give me time to make some preparations worthy of my royal guest.”

“My poor Marouin, you are giving yourself unnecessary trouble, and making a vexatious delay for us:  King Joachim is no longer accustomed to palaces and courtiers; he is only too happy nowadays to find a cottage with a friend in it; besides, I have let him know about it, so sure was I of your answer.  He is counting on sleeping at your house to-night, and if I try to change his determination now he will see a refusal in what is only a postponement, and you will lose all the credit for your generous and noble action.  There—­it is agreed:  to-night at ten at the Champs de Mars.”

With these words the captain put his horse to a gallop and disappeared.  Marouin turned his horse and went back to his country house to give the necessary orders for the reception of a stranger whose name he did not mention.

At ten o’clock at night, as had been agreed, Marouin was on the Champs de Mars, then covered with Marshal Brune’s field-artillery.  No one had arrived yet.  He walked up and down between the gun-carriages until a functionary came to ask what he was doing.  He was hard put to it to find an answer:  a man is hardly likely to be wandering about in an artillery park at ten o’clock at night for the mere pleasure of the thing.  He asked to see the commanding officer.  The officer came up:  M. Marouin informed him that he was an avocat, attached to the law courts of Toulon, and told him that he had arranged to meet someone on the Champs de Mars, not knowing that it was prohibited, and that he was still waiting for that person.  After this explanation, the officer authorised him to remain, and went back to his quarters.  The sentinel, a faithful adherent to discipline, continued to pace up and down with his measured step, without troubling any more about the stranger’s presence.

A few moments later a group of several persons appeared from the direction of Les Lices.  The night was magnificent, and the moon brilliant.  Marouin recognised Bonafoux, and went up to him.  The captain at once took him by the hand and led him to the king, and speaking in turn to each of them—­

“Sire,” he said, “here is the friend.  I told you of.”

Then turning to Marouin—­

“Here,” he said, “is the King of Naples, exile and fugitive, whom I confide to your care.  I do not speak of the possibility that some day he may get back his crown, that would deprive you of the credit of your fine action....  Now, be his guide—­we will follow at a distance.  March!”

The king and the lawyer set out at once together.  Murat was dressed in a blue coat-semi-military, semi-civil, buttoned to the throat; he wore white trousers and top boots with spurs; he had long hair, moustache, and thick whiskers, which would reach round his neck.