"And the message?"
"The violets have bloomed," said the boy, and he was gone.
CHAPTER XXIV
ON THE WHOLE DEATH MAY BE BETTER THAN LIFE
Marteau realized fully his position, and it would be idle to say that despite his depression he contemplated his fate without regret. Normally he would have wanted to live as much as any man, even though in his more passionate moments he had said that life without Laure d'Aumenier held nothing for him. To be sure, life without her did not look very inviting, and there was nothing in it for which he particularly cared, especially since the Emperor was gone, and Marteau had become a stranger, as it were, in France. If the Emperor had come back, or was coming back, it would be different.
In spite of rumors, originating nowhere apparently and spread by what means no one could say, that the Emperor was coming back, Marteau, in the depressed condition of his mind, gave these statements but little credence. Besides, even if they were true, even if Laure d'Aumenier loved him, even if he had everything on earth for which a man could ask or expect to live, he could not therewith purchase life; he could not even purchase love, at the expense of his honor.
He could not give up the Eagle for the kingdom. It was only a bit of gilded copper, battered and shattered, but it awakened in his nature the most powerful emotions which he was capable of entertaining. His love for Laure d'Aumenier was the great passion of his life. Yet even his love for the woman, or hers for him, if she had returned his devotion with equal intensity and ardor, would not avail to persuade him to give up that battered standard.
Even if she had loved him! Ah, what had she said in that moment of madness in her room that night? It was a moment of madness, of course, nothing else. Marteau put it out of his mind, or strove to. It could not be. Indeed, now that he was about to die, he would even admit that it should not be. But, if it were true, if that impulsive declaration indicated the true state of her regard—the possibility was thrilling, yet reflection convinced him it was better that he should die just the same, because there could be no mating between the two.
He had crossed swords with the Marquis. He had felt the hardness, the inflexibility and temper of the old man's steel. There would be no breaking him, no altering his will. He had made assurance doubly sure in some way, Marteau was convinced. This marriage with this young Englishman, whom the Frenchman regarded with a tolerant, half-amused contemptuousness for his simplicity and bluntness, would have to be carried through. When Marteau was dead the Countess would presumably return to a saner frame of mind, and forget the mad attachment, if indeed she had entertained it.