A flash of joy shone in the old soldier’s eyes. Stretching out his hand to Baradier, he exclaimed, in trembling tones—“Thank you. You are a brave soldier.”
At this moment the door opened, and the General gave a sonorous hum, and regained his composure. Madame Baradier and Mademoiselle de Trémont entered the room, followed by Graff. Still slender and graceful, Madame Baradier now showed a few silver threads among the beautiful blonde tresses of her youth. But her frank look and smiling lips revealed the young girl beloved of Elias Lichtenbach. Mademoiselle de Trémont, wearing a blue convent dress, slender and dark-complexioned, showed in her countenance, overwhelmed with grief, the charming grace of her sixteen years. Without the slightest awkwardness or hesitation, she walked straight to her father’s friend. At the first words the old soldier addressed her, however, her eyes filled with tears, which silently flowed unheeded down her cheeks. She listened with eager satisfaction to the consoling words of praise, consecrated to him who had just disappeared, and the silent nod she gave from time to time seemed an acquiescence of resignation and grief, in the bitterness of life now beginning for her.
Alas! she had scarcely known her father. A widower very soon after the birth of his daughter, he had been obliged to entrust her to the care of pious and devout women. She had scarcely ever tasted of the delights of home. Geneviève often tried, in vain, to recall the sound of her mother’s voice. How sad it was! She had never felt on her heart the caressing warmth of an ever-present affection. Isolation, in the midst of strangers, kind and benevolent though they were, had been her lot, right to the day on which death had broken the slender bond which still attached her to her father. And now what a sorrowful end, in this catastrophe, at once stupefying and terrible, which left her an orphan, and filled her mind with thoughts of violence and massacre!
She had not even the supreme consolation of thinking that the one she mourned had had a calm and peaceful death. As a soldier, he had not fallen on the field of battle; as a savant, he had not succumbed, a victim to his investigations. In a base and cowardly fashion, he had been assassinated by bandits. She heard the Minister telling her that she might rely on his protection. Stammering out her thanks, and blinded by tears, she left the room with Madame Baradier, almost heart-broken at being made to understand more vividly, from the expressions of condolence addressed to her, the extent of her loss.
The Minister, on leaving the room in his turn, found General de Trémont’s servant awaiting him in the antechamber. He looked with interest at the latter’s intelligent and energetic countenance.
“Well, my poor Baudoin, this is a great loss for us.”
“It is a great crime, General.”
“They had sent you away, my good fellow; but for that, all this would not have happened.”
“Ah, General, it is always the fair sex who ruin everything!”
“Come, come! Don’t say anything more on the subject.”