“No, no, I only wanted to have a chat with you.”
In the parlor Charles sat at his usual place, having just finished his exercises. He looked terrified, and his poor little white hands were tremulous. In point of fact, his grandmother, before sending him to bed, was wont to read some martial stories aloud so as to develop the latent family heroism in his bosom. That night she had selected the episode of the Vengeur, the man-of-war freighted with dying heroes and sinking into the sea. The child, while listening, had become almost hysterical, and his head was racked as with some ghastly nightmare.
Mme Burle asked the major to let her finish the perusal. “Long live the republic!” She solemnly closed the volume. Charles was as white as a sheet.
“You see,” said the old lady, “the duty of every French soldier is to die for his country.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
Then the lad kissed her on the forehead and, shivering with fear, went to bed in his big room, where the faintest creak of the paneling threw him into a cold sweat.
The major had listened with a grave face. Yes, by heavens! Honor was honor, and he would never permit that wretched Burle to disgrace the old woman and the boy! As the lad was so devoted to the military profession, it was necessary that he should be able to enter Saint-Cyr with his head erect.
When Mme Burle took up the lamp to show the major out, she passed the door of the captain’s room, and stopped short, surprised to see the key outside, which was a most unusual occurrence.
“Do go in,” she said to Laguitte; “it is bad for him to sleep so much.”
And before he could interpose she had opened the door and stood transfixed on finding the room empty. Laguitte turned crimson and looked so foolish that she suddenly understood everything, enlightened by the sudden recollection of several little incidents to which she had previously attached no importance.