“May his soul rest in peace,” said the mother, crossing herself, and mechanically putting her hands to her beads. “May his soul rest in peace. And you were with him when he died, Mademoiselle, were you?”
“I knelt at his bed-side as the breath passed from his body.”
“It would have been better for him had one of his own degree been there: not that I doubt you did the duty of a good neighbour, as well as it might be done by one like you. Might I ask you your name, lady?”
“My name is Agatha Larochejaquelin.”
“Larochejaquelin! I’m sorry for it. It was that name that first led Jacques into trouble: it was young Larochejaquelin that first made my son a soldier. I will not blame you, for you say you were kind to him at a time when men most want kindness; but, I wish that neither I nor he had ever heard your name.”
“You are wrong there, my friend. It was Cathelineau made a soldier of my brother, not my brother who made a soldier of him. Henri Larochejaquelin was only a follower of Cathelineau.”
“A Marquis obey a poor postillion! Yes, you stuffed him full with such nonsense as that! You made him fancy himself a General! You cannot fool me so easily. My son was not a companion for noble men and noble ladies. A wise man will never consort with those who are above him in degree.”
“We all looked on Cathelineau as equal to the best among us,” answered Agatha. “We all strove to see who should show him most honour.”
The old woman sat silent for a while, turning her wheel with great violence, and then she moved abruptly round, and facing Agatha, said:
“Will you answer me one question truly, Mademoiselle?”