CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE
“It will go hard with Moreau to-day,” said the elder of the two prisoners, a large, swarthy-looking Breton, in the dress of a sailor; “the Consul hates him.”
“Whom does he not hate,” said the younger, a slight and handsome youth—“whom does he not hate that ever rivalled him in glory? What love did he bear to Kléber or Desaix?”
“It is false,” said I, fiercely. “Bonaparte's greatness stands far too high to feel such rivalry as theirs. The conqueror of Italy and of Egypt—”
“Is a Corsican,” interrupted the elder.
“And a tyrant,” rejoined the other, in the same breath.
“These words become you well,” said I, bitterly. “Would that no stain lay on my honor, and I could make you eat them.”
“And who are you that dare to speak thus?” said the younger; “or how came one like you mixed up with men whose hearts were in a great cause, and who came to sell their lives upon it?”
“I tell you, boy,” broke in the elder, in a slow and measured tone, “I have made more stalwart limbs than thine bend, and stronger joints crack, for less than thou hast ventured to tell us; but sorrow and suffering are hard masters, and I can bear more now than I was wont to do. Let us have no more words.”
As he spoke, he leaned his head upon his hand, and turned towards the wall; the other, too, sat down in a comer of the cell, and was silent. And thus we remained for hours long.