“But you know, my dear Roland, that if there are any reprisals to make—”
“I shall make them for both. You are in love, my dear fellow; live in your love.”
“You promise me your support?”
“That’s understood! I am most anxious to call you brother.”
“Are you tired of calling me friend?”
“Faith, yes; it is too little.”
“Thanks.”
They pressed each other’s hands and parted.
A quarter of an hour later Roland reached the Prytanée Français, which stood then on the present site of the Lyceum of Louis-le-Grand—that is to say, at the head of the Rue Saint-Jacques, behind the Sorbonne. At the first words of the director, Roland saw that his young brother had been especially recommended to the authorities. The boy was sent for. Edouard flung himself into the arms of his “big brother” with that passionate adoration he had for him.
After the first embraces were over, Roland inquired about the stoppage of the diligence. Madame de Montrevel had been chary of mentioning it; Sir John had been sober in statement, but not so Edouard. It was his Iliad, his very own. He related it with every detail—Jérôme’s connivance with the bandits, the pistols loaded with powder only, his mother’s fainting-fit, the attention paid to her by those who had caused it, his own name known to the bandits, the fall of the mask from the face of the one who was restoring his mother, his certainty that she must have seen the man’s face.