"That is true," the count muttered with conviction.
"Patience!" the baron replied with a smile. "Do you think I intend to send you into action without a cuirass? No, no, I will give you one, and magnificently tempered, too, I assure you."
All those present looked with amazement on this man, who had grown enormously in their esteem in a few moments. The baron feigned not to perceive the impression he produced, and in a minute or so he continued, laying a stress on every word, as if wishful to engrave it more deeply on the count's memory:—
"Remember what I am about to tell you; it is of the utmost importance for you not to forget a word, my friend; from that positively depends the success of your trip to the New World."
"Speak—I am not losing a syllable!" the count interrupted him with a species of febrile impatience.
"When strangers began to flock to America, a company of bold fellows was formed without faith or law, and without pity as without weakness, who, denying all nationality, as they issued from every people, only recognised one government, that which they themselves instituted on Tortoise Island, a desolate rock, lost in the middle of the ocean—a monstrous government; for violence was at its basis, and it only admitted of right being might. These bold companions, attached to each other by a Draconian charter, assumed the name of Brethren of the Coast, and were divided into two classes—the Buccaneers and the Filibusters.
"The buccaneers, wandering, through the primeval forests, hunted oxen, while the filibusters scoured the seas, attacking every flag, plundering every vessel under the pretext of making war on the Spaniards, but in reality stripping the rich for the benefit of the poor—the only means they discovered to restore the balance between the two classes. The Brethren of the Coast, continually recruited from all the rogues of the new world, became powerful—so powerful, indeed, that the Spaniards trembled for their possessions, and a glorious King of France did not disdain to treat with them, and send an ambassador to them. At last, through the very force of circumstances, like all powers which are the offspring of anarchy, and consequently possess no inherent vitality, when the maritime nations recognised their own strength, the Brethren of the Coast grew gradually weaker, and finally disappeared entirely. By forcing them into obscurity, it was supposed that they were not merely conquered, but annihilated; but it was not so, as you shall now see. I ask your pardon for this long and tedious prologue, but it was indispensable, so that you should better comprehend the rest I have to explain to you."
"It is nearly half past four," observed the count; "we have not more than forty minutes left us."
"That period, though so short, will be sufficient," the baron answered. "I resume my narrative. The Brethren of the Coast were not destroyed, but transformed. They yielded with extraordinary cleverness to the exigencies of that progress which threatened to outstrip them: they had changed their skin—from tigers they had become foxes. The Brethren of the Coast were converted into Dauph'yeers. Instead of boldly boarding the enemies' ships, sword and hatchet in hand, as they formerly did, they became insignificant, and dug mines. At the present day the Dauph'yeers are the masters and kings of the New World; they are nowhere and everywhere, but they reign; their influence is felt in all ranks of society; they are found on every rung of the ladder, but are never seen. They detached the United States from England; Peru, Chili and Mexico, from Spain. Their power is immense, the more so because it is secret, ignored and almost denied, which displays their strength. For a secret society to be denied existence is a real power. There is not a revolution in America in which the influence of the Dauph'yeers does not step forward valorously, either to insure its triumph or to crush it. They can do everything—they are everything: without their golden circle nothing is possible. Such have the Brethren of the Coast become, in less than two centuries, by the force of progress! They are the axis round which the New World revolves though it little suspects it. It is a wretched lot for that magnificent country to have been condemned, ever since its discovery, to undergo the tyranny of bandits of every rank, who seem to have undertaken the mission of exhausting her in every way, while never giving her the chance of liberating herself."
There was a lengthened silence: each was reflecting on what he had just heard. The baron himself had buried his face in his hands, and was lost in that world of ideas which he had evoked, and which now assailed him in a mass with sensations of mingled pain and bitterness.
The distant sound of a rapidly approaching vehicle recalled the count to the gravity of the situation.
"Here is my chaise," he said. "I am about to set out, and I know nothing."
"Patience!" the baron replied. "Take leave of your friends, and we will start."
Yielding, in spite of himself, to the influence of this singular man, the count obeyed, without dreaming of offering the slightest opposition. He rose, embraced each of his old friends, exchanged with them hearty hand-shakings, received their auguries of success, and left the room, followed by the baron.
The post-chaise was waiting in front of the house. The young men had opened the windows, and were waving fresh adieux to their friend. The count turned a long look on the Boulevard. The night was gloomy, though the rain no longer fell; the sky was black; and the gas-jets glinted feebly in the distance like stars lost in a fog.
"Farewell," he said in a stifled voice, "farewell! Who knows whether I shall ever return?"
"Courage!" a stern voice whispered in his ear.
The young man shuddered: the baron was at his side.
"Come, my friend," he said, as he helped him to enter the carriage, "I will accompany you to the barrier."
The count got in and fell back on a cushion.
"The Normandy road," the baron shouted to the postilion, as he shut the door.
The driver cracked his whip, and the chaise started at a gallop.
"Good-by, good-by!" the young men loudly shouted as they leant out of the windows of the Café Anglais.
For a long time the two remained silent. At length the baron took the word.
"Gaëtan!" he said.
"What would you?" the latter replied.
"I have not yet finished my narrative."
"It is true," he muttered distractedly.
"Do you not wish me to end it?"
"Speak, my friend."
"In what a tone you say that, my good fellow! Your mind is wandering in imaginary space; you are doubtlessly dreaming of those you are leaving.
"Alas!" murmured the count with a sigh, "I am alone in the world. What have I to regret? I possess neither friends nor relations."
"Ungrateful man!" The baron said in a reproachful tone.
"It is true: Pardon me, my dear fellow; I did not think of what I was saying."
"I pardon you, but on condition that you listen to me."
"I promise it."
"My friend, it you desire success, the