“And the Priests!” muttered the Huguenot.
“And the Tax-gatherers!” added the lean Catholic.
We rode slowly on. My comrade was evidently and powerfully affected.
“So, he is dead!” said he. “Dead!—well, well, peace be with him! He conquered in Holland; he humbled Genoa; he dictated to Spain; he commanded Conde and Turenne; he—Bah! What is all this!—” then, turning abruptly to me, my companion cried, “I did not speak against the King, did I, Sir?”
“Not much.”
“I am glad of that,—yes, very glad!” And the old man glared fiercely round on a troop of boys who were audibly abusing the dead lion.
“I would have bit out my tongue rather than it had joined in the base joy of these yelping curs. Heavens! when I think what shouts I have heard when the name of that man, then deemed little less than a god, was but breathed!—and now—why do you look at me, Sir? My eyes are moist; I know it, Sir,—I know it. The old battered broken soldier, who made his first campaigns when that which is now dust was the idol of France and the pupil of Turenne,—the old soldier’s eyes shall not be dry, though there is not another tear shed in the whole of this great empire.”
“Your three sons?” said I; “you did not weep for them?”
“No, Sir: I loved them when I was old; but I loved Louis when I was young!”
“Your oppressed and pillaged country?” said I, “think of that.”