He returned to the house confounded.
"I forgive him now, but later he shall pay dear for the anxiety he has
given us," said the mother to the son, in a low voice, as Hulot
re-entered the room.
The brave old officer showed on his worried face the struggle that
went on in his mind betwixt a stern sense of duty and the natural
kindness of his heart. He kept his gruff air, partly, perhaps, because
he fancied he had deceived himself, but he took the glass of Bordeaux,
and said: "Excuse me, comrade, but your Polytechnique does send such
young officers--"
"The Chouans have younger ones," said the youth, laughing.
"For whom did you take my son?" asked Madame du Gua.
"For the Gars, the leader sent to the Chouans and the Vendeans by the
British cabinet; his real name is Marquis de Montauran."
The commandant watched the faces of the suspected pair, who looked at
each other with a puzzled expression that seemed to say: "Do you know
that name?" "No, do you?" "What is he talking about?" "He's dreaming."
The sudden change in the manner of Marie de Verneuil, and her torpor
as she heard the name of the royalist general was observed by no one
but Francine, the only person to whom the least shade on that young
face was visible. Completely routed, the commandant picked up the bits
of his broken sword, looked at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose ardent
beauty was beginning to find its way to his heart, and said: "As for
you, mademoiselle, I take nothing back, and to-morrow these fragments
of my sword will reach Bonaparte, unless--"
"Pooh! what do I care for Bonaparte, or your republic, or the king, or
the Gars?" she cried, scarcely repressing an explosion of ill-bred
temper.
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