“I pray you will permit me, Mons. le Comte,” said he, “to express my heartfelt thanks for the hospitality and kindness of your treatment. I feared that I should leave this without the occasion of saying how grateful I feel for the remnant of life your care has been the means of preserving.”
Alfred tried to answer: but a dread of his disobedience and its consequences, and a strange sense of admiration for the stranger, whose manner and appearance had deeply impressed him, made him silent.
“I see,” said the lieutenant smiling, “that you are indisposed to receive an acknowledgment for what you set such small store by—a kindness to a mere ‘soldier of the Republic;’ but when you wear a sword yourself, Mons. le Comte, as you will doubtless one of these days——”
“No,” said Alfred, hastily interrupting him, “never! I shall never wear one.”
“How, never! What can you mean?”
“That I shall never be a soldier,” said Alfred. “I am to be a priest.”
“A priest! You, Mons. le Comte de Vitry, of the best blood of Auvergne—you, a monk!”
“I did not say a monk,” said Alfred, proudly; “there are other ranks among churchmen. I have heard tell of Prince-bishops and Cardinals.”
“And if one were to begin life at the age they usually take leave of it, such a career might not be held so cheaply; but for a young man of good birth and blood, with a heart to feel proudly, and a hand to wield a weapon—no, no, this were a shame not to be thought of.”
Stung alike by the severity of the sarcasm, and animated by the old spirit of the Père’s teaching, Alfred hastily answered:—