“And, in your position, you did well, Pierre; without sharing your admiration, I understood your gratitude.  The projects of exile, the conspiracies—­I approved them all—­you know it.”

“Well, then, that disinherited child, in whose name I conspired seventeen years ago, is now of an age to wield his father’s sword.”

“Napoleon ii!” exclaimed the old man, looking at his son with surprise and extreme anxiety; “the king of Rome!”

“King? no; he is no longer king.  Napoleon? no; he is no longer Napoleon.  They have given him some Austrian name, because the other frightened them.  Everything frightens them.  Do you know what they are doing with the son of the Emperor?” resumed the marshal, with painful excitement.  “They are torturing him—­killing him by inches!”

“Who told you this?”

“Somebody who knows, whose words are but too true.  Yes; the son of the Emperor struggles with all his strength against a premature death.  With his eyes turned towards France, he waits—­he waits—­and no one comes—­no one—­out of all the men that his father made as great as they once were little, not one thinks of that crowned child, whom they are stifling, till he dies.”

“But you think of him?”

“Yes; but I had first to learn—­oh! there is no doubt of it, for I have not derived all my information from the same source—­I had first to learn the cruel fate of this youth, to whom I also swore allegiance; for one day, as I have told you, the Emperor, proud and loving father as he was, showed him to me in his cradle, and said:  ’My old friend, you will be to the son what you have been to the father; who loves us, loves our France.’”

“Yes, I know it.  Many times you have repeated those words to me, and, like yourself, I have been moved by them.”

“Well, father! suppose, informed of the sufferings of the son of the Emperor, I had seen—­with the positive certainty that I was not deceived—­a letter from a person of high rank in the court of Vienna, offering to a man that was still faithful to the Emperor’s memory, the means of communicating with the king of Rome, and perhaps of saving him from his tormentors—­”

“What next?” said the workman, looking fixedly at his son.  “Suppose Napoleon ii. once at liberty—­”

“What next?” exclaimed the marshal.  Then he added, in a suppressed voice:  “Do you think, father, that France is insensible to the humiliations she endures?  Do you think that the memory of the Emperor is extinct?  No, no; it is, above all, in the days of our country’s degredation, that she whispers that sacred name.  How would it be, then, were that name to rise glorious on the frontier, reviving in his son?  Do you not think that the heart of all France would beat for him?”

“This implies a conspiracy—­against the present government—­with Napoleon ii. for a watchword,” said the workman.  “This is very serious.”