"What did M. le Lieutenant mean by saying that he would take care of you in France, Papa?" came the inevitable question, as de Flavigny knew it would, directly the pair were out of earshot. "You are not going away again, are you?"
Perhaps, after all, this was as good a moment as another for telling the child.
"Yes, my pigeon," he replied, trying to keep the sadness in his heart out of his voice. "Look, you have dropped a large crumb on the path, and that duck wants it."
But Anne had no thought for ducks now. "Are you going soon?" he queried, seizing hold of his father's hand.
"Yes, I am afraid so," said René, gripping his fingers.
"Oh, Papa, why?"
De Flavigny went down on one knee and put an arm round him. A flotilla of disgusted argonauts watched his movements. "Because it is my duty, Anne. You know that the little King is in prison, and that wicked men have taken the throne away from him. But we owe him allegiance just the same. You remember, when you were at the meeting in April in Grandpapa's dining-room, where you sat on M. de la Vireville's knee, how we talked about an expedition to France? This is the expedition, and I must go with it, to fight for the King—a little boy like you, Anne—and you must let me go." His voice shook a trifle.
The slow tears gathered in Anne-Hilarion's eyes and coursed down his cheeks. Dropping his last bit of bread, he laid his head against his father's breast, as the latter knelt there by the lake. "Je ne peux pas le supporter," he said.
The Marquis thought that they could both bear it better if he carried him home, and did so—at least, to nearly the top of Bond Street.