“Look up, love,” he said; “I haven’t seen your face yet, or heard your voice. Come, Victorine, you were not used to be so weak. We must all string our nerves now, dearest: we must all be brave now. We used to praise you for your courage; now is the time for you to show it.”
“Oh, Charles! oh, my poor stricken love!” and then she raised her face and gazed into his, till the tears made her eyes so dim that she could hardly see him. “I knew it would come at last,” she said; “I knew this fearful blow would come at last. Oh, that we had gone when others went! at any rate I should not have lived to see you thus.”
“Do no say that, Victorine; do not speak so—do not allow yourself to think so—or you will rob both of us of our dearest comfort. No, my love; were it to do again, I again would stand by the throne, and you again would counsel me to do so. A doubt on that point would be calamity, indeed; but, thank God, there is no doubt.”
“But the misery to see you thus—torn, and mangled, and tortured. And for what? What good have we done with our hot patriotism? Is the King nearer his throne? Are the murders of the Republic less frequent?”
“I fear you are selfish now, love. Did we not know, when we first took up our arms, that many happy wives would be widowed—that numberless children would be made fatherless—that hundreds of mothers would have to weep for their sons. We must not ourselves complain of that fate, to which we have knowingly, and thoughtfully, consigned so many others.”
Madame de. Lescure had no answer to make to her husband’s remonstrance. She sat herself upon the bed, so that she could support his head upon her bosom; and pressing her lips to his clammy brow, she said in a low voice: “God’s will be done, Charles: with all my heart I pity those who have suffered as I now suffer.”
She remained sitting there in silence for a considerable time; weeping, indeed, but stifling her sobs, that the sound of her grief might not agitate him, while he enjoyed the inexpressible comfort of having her close to him. He closed his eyes as he leant against the sweet support which she afforded him, but not in sleep; he was thinking over all it might be most necessary for him to say to her, before the power of speech had left him, and taking counsel with himself as to the advice which he would give her.
“Victorine,” he said, and then paused a moment for a reply, but, as she did not answer him, he went on. “Victorine, I want you to be all yourself now, while I speak to you. Can you listen to me calmly, love, while I speak to you seriously?”
She said that she would, but the tone in which she said it, hardly gave confirmation to her promise.
“I hardly know what account you have yet heard of that unfortunate battle.”