“Valentine, sooner than think of you on your knees to that man I would go on my own—if that were conceivable. But it is not conceivable—not if he had a pardon ready sealed in his hand, not if he held it out to me! Think a moment, heart of my heart, and face it! When did any captured Breton or Vendean, even the humblest peasant, ever ask for mercy? Thousands of them have laid down their lives readily in the cause they fought for, and hundreds of gentlemen, too. And would you have me—through your mouth or my own it matters little—would you have me, a leader, be the first in either of those lists to play the recreant? Was it for that you wrought and gave me that scarf there—that when the crucial moment came I should deal the cause it represents such a stab in the back as my humiliation would be? Think of our enemies saying, ‘At the last moment the Duc de Trélan’s heart failed him, and he humbly besought the First Consul for his life.’ How would that sound in the streets of Paris next week . . . and when the King comes back?”
Valentine flinched. Her lips were grey. Indeed she did not like the sound of it.
“But, Gaston,” she said, those lips quivering, “for the cause you have done more than enough. You have done everything that mortal man could do, you, the last in arms—more than Cadoudal, who was so strong—more than all the rest!”
“And all in vain,” he finished sadly.
“No devotion is in vain!”
He smiled suddenly, the smile, somehow, of a young man. “My darling, that is what I have been trying to say. There are two sides to being made an ‘example’ of.”
But at that she gave a sharp exclamation and put her hands over her eyes.
Her husband’s face became still more drawn. “Valentine,” he said tenderly, but very gravely, “have you forgotten the night I came, when the tide of fortune was ebbing, to La Vergne. It was your name day; not three weeks have passed since then. That night, my very dear, my heart of hearts, my fleur-de-lys, you understood—wonderfully—and you gave me leave to die!”
“But not like this—not like this!” she cried distractedly. “O blessed saints, help me! Why did I ever say that! I meant—in the fighting . . . and I thought the need for it was past with the surrender. O Gaston, Gaston, you are killing me!”
Indeed it seemed like it. Her head went down to her very knees, and the wrenching sobs shook her from head to foot. The price was more than she could pay! He was now, through and through, what once she would almost have given her soul to see him. But the cost, the cost of it! . . . She saw, dimly, horribly, what he meant—the damage his death would do to Bonaparte’s reputation. It broke her, strong as she was. And, no longer rebellious but purely suppliant, she threw herself on his neck as he knelt there beside the little prison bed, pleaded with him, besought him, implored him—and all in vain.