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"Dutocq has already made them cut off the head of that poor Desroys." Thuillier. "Ah, my friend, if it were I myself, I couldn't be better pleased." Bixiou. Poiret. "Will any one tell me the meaning of all that is happening here to-day?" Bixiou. "Do you really want to know? Then listen.
About ten o'clock, in the bureau Baudoyer, Bixiou was relating the last moments of the life of the director to Minard, Desroys, Monsieur Godard, whom he had called from his private office, and Dutocq, who had rushed in with private motives of his own. Colleville and Chazelle were absent.
Looking about them for the causes of this reserve, some of his colleagues thought him a "carbonaro," others an Orleanist; there were others again who doubted whether to call him a spy or a man of solid merit. Desroys was, however, simple and solely the son of a "Conventionel," who did not vote the king's death.
"Suppress cashiers! Why, the man's a monster?" Bixiou. "Desroys. Dangerous; because he cannot be shaken in principles that are subversive of monarchial power. He is the son of the Conventionel, and he admires the Convention. He may become a very mischievous journalist." Baudoyer. "The police are not worse spies!" Godard.
Fleury, as you will have guessed already, was a Southerner, destined, no doubt, to become the responsible editor of a liberal journal. Desroys, the mysterious clerk of the division, consorted with no one, talked little, and hid his private life so carefully that no one knew where he lived, nor who were his protectors, nor what were his means of subsistence.
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