But M. d’Escorval could not allow his own son, whom he now perceived in the ranks, to depart in this fashion: “Maurice!” he cried.
The young fellow hesitated, but finally stepped forward.
“You will not follow these madmen, Maurice?” said the baron.
“I must follow them, father.”
“I forbid it.”
“Alas! father, I can’t obey you. I have promised—I have sworn. I am second in command.” If his voice had a mournful ring, plainly enough he was at all events determined.
“My son!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval; “unfortunate boy! Don’t you know that you are marching to certain death?”
“Then all the more reason, father, why I shouldn’t break my word.”
“And your mother, Maurice, your mother whom you forget!”
A tear glistened in the young fellow’s eye. “I am sure,” he replied, “that my mother would rather weep for her dead son than keep him near her dishonoured, and branded as a coward and a traitor. Farewell! father.”