Meanwhile Salicetti’s danger for himself, and those who secreted him, increased every day, and Madame de Permont resolved to quit Paris.  The sickness of her husband, who was in Toulon, furnished her with the welcomed opportunity of a journey.  She made known to the friends and acquaintances who visited her house, and especially to Bonaparte, that she had received a letter from the physician in Toulon, requesting her presence at her husband’s bed of sickness.  Bonaparte read the letter, and again the same strange look met the face of Madame de Permont.

“It is, indeed, important,” said he, “that you should travel, and I advise you to do so as soon as possible.  Fatal consequences might ensue to M. de Permont, were you to delay any longer in going to Toulon.”

Madame de Permont made, therefore, all her arrangements for this journey.  Salicetti, disguised as a servant, was to accompany her.  Bonaparte still came as usual every day, and took great interest in the preparations for her journey, and conversed with her in the most friendly and pleasant manner.  On the day of departure, he saluted her most cordially, assured her of his true, unswerving attachment, and, with a final, significant look, expressed a wish that her journey might be accomplished without danger.

When Madame de Permont had overcome all difficulties, and she and her daughter had left Paris and passed the barriere, as the carriage rolled on without interruption (Salicetti, disguised as a servant, sitting near the postilion on the driver’s seat), the housemaid handed to her a letter which General Bonaparte had given her, with positive orders to hand it to her mistress only when they should be beyond the outer gates of Paris.

The letter ran thus:  “I have never been deceived:  I would seem to be in your estimation, if I did not tell you that, for the last twenty days, I knew that Salicetti was secreted in your house.  Remember what I told you on the first day, Prairial, Madame de Permont—­I had then the mental conviction of this secrecy.  Now it is a matter of fact.—­Salicetti, you see I could have returned to you the wrong which you perpetrated against me, and by so doing I should have revenged myself, whilst you wronged me without any offence on my part.  Who plays at this moment the nobler part, you or I?  Yes, I could have revenged myself, and I have not done it.  You will, perhaps, say that your benefactress acted as a protecting shield.  That is true, and it also is taken into consideration.  Yet, even without this consideration, such as you were—­alone, disarmed, sentenced—­your head would even then have been sacred to me.  Go, seek in peace a refuge where you can rise to nobler sentiments for your country.  My mouth remains closed in reference to your name, and will no more utter it.  Repent, and, above all things, do justice to my intentions.  I deserve it, for they are noble and generous.

“Madame de Permont, my best wishes accompany you and your daughter.  You are two frail beings, without protection.  Providence and prayers will accompany you.  Be prudent, and during your journey never stop in large towns.  Farewell, and receive the assurance of my friendship.” [Footnote:  Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. i., p. 351.]