“Well, your friend Morgan is none the less a thief.”
Citizen Alfred de Barjols turned very pale.
“Citizen Morgan is not my friend,” replied the young aristocrat; “but if he were I should feel honored by his friendship.”
“No doubt,” replied Roland, laughing. “As Voltaire says: ‘The friendship of a great man is a blessing from the gods.’”
“Roland, Roland!” observed his comrade in a low tone.
“Oh! general,” replied the latter, letting his companion’s rank escape him, perhaps intentionally, “I implore you, let me continue this discussion, which interests me in the highest degree.”
His friend shrugged his shoulders.
“But, citizen,” continued the young man with strange persistence, “I stand in need of correction. I left France two years ago, and during my absence so many things have changed, such as dress, morals, and accents, that even the language may have changed also. In the language of the day in France what do you call stopping coaches and taking the money which they contain?”
“Sir,” said the young noble, in the tone of a man determined to sustain his argument to its end, “I call that war. Here is your companion whom you have just called general; he as a military man will tell you that, apart from the pleasure of killing and being killed, the generals of all ages have never done anything else than what the citizen Morgan is doing?”
“What!” exclaimed the young man, whose eyes flashed fire. “You dare to compare—”