“Indeed!” replied Villefort, looking at his father with astonishment, “you really do seem very well informed.”
“Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts.”
“Devotion!” said Villefort, with a sneer.
“Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful ambition.”
And Villefort’s father extended his hand to the bell-rope, to summon the servant whom his son had not called. Villefort caught his arm.
“Wait, my dear father,” said the young man, “one word more.”
“Say on.”
“However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible thing.”
“What is that?”
“The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General Quesnel disappeared, presented himself at his house.”
“Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may be that description?”
“Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers black; blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor in his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane.”
“Ah, ha, that’s it, is it?” said Noirtier; “and why, then, have they not laid hands on him?”
“Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the corner of the Rue Coq-Héron.”
“Didn’t I say that your police were good for nothing?”
“Yes; but they may catch him yet.”
“True,” said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him, “true, if this person were not on his guard, as he is;” and he added with a smile, “He will consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance.” At these words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went towards a table on which lay his son’s toilet articles, lathered his face, took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising whiskers. Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration.