"Thanks, brave Thermopyle! thanks," said Tison; and he went out to make his report to the Commune, murmuring, "My poor wife, how happy she will be!"
"Do you know, Sergeant," said one of the National Guard, seeing Tison depart, and overhearing the last words,—"do you know there is something in these things that makes my blood run cold?"
"What things, Citizen Devaux?" demanded Lorin.
"Why," replied the compassionate National Guard, "to see this man, with his surly face and heart of stone, this pitiless guardian of the queen, go out with his eyes full of tears, partly of joy, partly of grief, thinking that his wife will see his daughter, and he shall not. It does not do to reflect upon it too much, Sergeant; it is really grievous."
"Doubtless that is why he does not reflect upon it himself, this man who goes out with tears in his eyes, as you term it."
"Upon what should he reflect?"
"That it is three months since this woman he so brutally uses has seen her child. He does not think of her grief, only of his own; that is all. It is true this woman was queen," continued the sergeant, in an ironical tone rather difficult of comprehension; "and one is not obliged to feel the same respect for a queen as for the wife of a journeyman."
"Notwithstanding, all this is very sad," said Devaux.
"Sad, but necessary," said Lorin. "The best way then, is, as you say, not to think of it," and he began to sing—
"Where the branches met
On a rocky stone
There I found Nicette,
Seated all alone."