"Who has a drop of brandy to give my little compatriot? He is cold."
"Come here, my pretty boy," said the captain, offering the boy a flask. Charles took a swallow of brandy; not that he was cold, but because he did not wish to betray his feelings.
"Thanks, captain," he said.
"At your service, boy; at your service. A mouthful, citizen Sainte-Hermine?"
"A thousand thanks, captain; I never drink it."
Charles returned to the prisoner's side.
"Only," continued the latter, "when I am dead, pick it up without seeming to attach more importance to it than it deserves. But you will remember, will you not, that my last wish—and the last wishes of a dying man are sacred—that my last wish is that the letter in it be given to my brother. If the cap bothers you, take out the letter and throw the cap into the first ditch you come to; but the letter—you will not lose the letter?"
"No."
"You will not mislay it?"
"No, no; do not worry."