"De Montmorenci!" cried the baron. "That is a noble and historic name. The house of Montmorenci has been well represented in the field."
"And on the scaffold!" added Henri, with deep emotion.
"The scaffold!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, yes; I remember now a dreadful tragedy. But he suffered unjustly."
"No matter," answered Henri. "The ignominious punishment remains a stain upon our escutcheon. Men will point to me as the son of a condemned and executed traitor. Could I forget for a moment the tragedy which has rendered my poor mother an animated image of death, the finger of the world would recall my wandering thoughts to the horrors of the fact. The scaffold, with all its bloody paraphernalia, would rise up before me."
"Henri, you are too sensitive," said the baron. "The best and bravest of France (alas for our history!) have closed their lives upon the scaffold. I believe your father innocent. If it were otherwise, you have redeemed the honor of your race. You deserve my daughter's hand—take her and be happy."
"Make her the companion of my agony! Never."
"Come with me," said the baron; "her smiles shall dispel these gloomy fantasies."
"No, no! urge me not," said the young guardsman. "Let me return to my poor mother. She has need of all my consolation. I renounce forever my ill-fated attachment. Heaven, for its own wise purposes, has chosen to afflict me. Farewell, baron; I thank you for your kindness—your generous friendship. You and Heloise will soon learn that Henri de Montmorenci is no more. After the next battle, if you seek me out, you will find me where the French dead lie thickest on the field."
"Noble-hearted fellow!" cried the baron, when Henri had left him. "He ought to be a field marshal."
"Marshal Saxe requests your immediate presence, baron," said an aide-de-camp, presenting himself with a salute.