Julien had arisen, and stood glaring at the captain.
“Monsieur forgets he is speaking of the land of my birth!”
“And of the land of his birth, as well,” was the quiet reply.
“Quoi! what do I understand monsieur to say?”
“Have you never heard your mother speak of her brother Jean?”
“Often.”
“I am he.”
“But no! He entered a monastery. He was a monk.”
“Still again, I am he. At your age I grew weary of the cloister. Disguised as a sailor I escaped to the United States; and disguised as a sailor I have knocked about the world ever since. My own country is the one I avoid most of all. I suppose I never should have known aught of Marguerite’s children if the little Julie had not come to me just as she did. Indeed, although she told me her name, I never suspected who she might be until she showed me her poor mother’s cross. In the cloister one is buried from the world. I did not know whom my sister married. He, too, is dead, the child told me. I mean your father.”
“General Leblanc, of the Italian campaign—you have never heard of him? It was there that he lost his life.”