(1)
Roland had come. He stood in the ‘nursery’ with an overjoyed friend holding him firmly by either arm.
“But why,” he was now demanding feverishly, “why cannot I see M. le Marquis at once, and get it over?”
For if his sincere penitence had caused his grandfather to dismiss him in the end with a sort of blessing—a remark that he was, if crazy and disobedient, at least no milksop—the youth knew that there was a still more merited penance to be gone through before he could expect a blessing here. Part indeed of that penance, and perhaps the worst part, he had already been undergoing at Kerlidec—the ashamed realisation of the damage his own wilfulness had caused to his hero’s reputation, in the eyes, too, of one who was always so inexplicably hostile to M. de Kersaint.
“Why?” echoed Artamène. “Because, four nights ago, our revered leader met with an accident in the forest. (Roland gave an exclamation.) The accident took the form of a Blue, who shot him in the arm.”
“But he’s all right,” interpolated the kindhearted Lucien. “They took out the bullet next morning. The Abbé is very strict, however.”
“—And M. de Brencourt shot the Blue,” continued Artamène, “shot him so dead that he was, apparently, blown completely off this planet.”
“You forget,” Lucien reminded him, “that the Comte distinctly stated that he got away.”
“What, after he was dead?” asked Roland.
They looked at him; they drew closer, very close.