“Monseigneur, poor people like us are neither lawyers nor scribes, but the Lord inspires the honest with a sense of justice.”
“Honest man,” said the baron, looking at him with keen interest, “will you dine with me at Maison-Forte?” “My sentry-box is waiting for me, monseigneur, and Luquin Trinquetaille is getting weary of it.”
“Come, come, then, I will see you at Maison-Forte with my brothers; they will arrive soon.”
“Have you any news from the commander?” asked Peyrou.
“I have some from Malta; it was good, and informs me again of his return here for Christmas, but his letter is sadder than ever.”
The watchman looked down and sighed.
“Ah, Peyrou,” said the baron, “how grievous is this melancholy, whose cause I do not know!”
“Very distressing,” replied the watchman, absorbed in his own thoughts.
“You, at least, know the cause of it,” said the baron, with a sort of bitterness, as if he had suffered from his brother’s reticence.
“Monseigneur!” said Peyrou.