Charles kept on his wonted way; if they talked in the parlor, they could hear him stirring upstairs; if they strolled in the road, they could see his light in the window. Philippe humored his studious habits; he only worked in the mornings; in the afternoons he read, history principally. His favorite study was the “Life of Napoleon Buonaparte,” which seemed to absorb him completely. He was growing more retired and preoccupied every day,—lost in deep reveries, swallowed of ambitious dreams.
It had been a somewhat longer day than usual in the harvest-field, and it was late when the last meal was ready. Philippe, as he called Charles, from the foot of the stair, could hear him walking up and down, seemingly reading out loud, and when he received no response to his demand he went up the stairs. Pushing open the door, he saw his brother striding up and down the room, with his hands clasped behind him and his head bent, muttering to himself.
“Charles!” He seemed to collect himself, and looked up. “Come down to supper!” They went downstairs together. Adèle and Philippe kept up a conversation throughout the meal, but Charles hardly spoke. Suddenly he pushed his plate away and stood upright, to his full height; a look of calm, severe dignity came over his face.
“I!” said he; “I am the Great Napoleon!”
“Charles!” cried Adèle, “what is the matter?”
“The prosperity of the nation depends upon the execution of my plans. Go!” said he, dismissing some imaginary person with an imperious gesture.
They sat as if stunned, and between them stood this majestic figure with outstretched hand. Then Charles turned away and commenced to pace the room.
“It has come!” sobbed Adèle, as she sank on her knees beside the table.
“There is only one thing to do,” said Philippe, after some hours of silence. “It is hard; but there is only one thing to do.” The room was perfectly dark; he stood in the window, where he had seen the light die out of the sky, and now in the marshy field he saw the fireflies gleam. He knew that Adèle was in the dark somewhere beside him, for he could hear her breathe. “We must cut ourselves off; we must be the last of our race.” In those words, which in after years were often on his lips, he seemed to find some comfort, and he continued to repeat them to himself.
Charles lay in bed in a sort of stupor for three days. On Sunday morning he rose. The church bells were ringing. He met Philippe in the hall.