General Baron D'Hubert was shown in suddenly without preliminaries. In
the dusk of the Minister's cabinet, behind the forms of writing-desk,
chairs, and tables, between two bunches of wax candles blazing in
sconces, he beheld a figure in a gorgeous coat posturing before a tall
mirror. The old conventionnel Fouche, Senator of the Empire, traitor
to every man, to every principle and motive of human conduct. Duke of
Otranto, and the wily artizan of the second Restoration, was trying
the fit of a court suit in which his young and accomplished fiancee had
declared her intention to have his portrait painted on porcelain. It was
a caprice, a charming fancy which the first Minister of Police of the
second Restoration was anxious to gratify. For that man, often compared
in wiliness of conduct to a fox, but whose ethical side could be
worthily symbolized by nothing less emphatic than a skunk, was as much
possessed by his love as General D'Hubert himself.
Startled to be discovered thus by the blunder of a servant, he met this
little vexation with the characteristic impudence which had served
his turn so well in the endless intrigues of his self-seeking career.
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