After a moment he said dreamily: "It is but a step."
The Little Chemist nodded, though he did not understand. The Cure stooped over him.
"A step, my son?" he asked, thinking he spoke of the voyage the soul takes.
"To the Tuileries," answered Valmond, and he smiled. The Cure's brow clouded; he wished to direct the dying man's thoughts elsewhere. "It is but a step—anywhere," he continued; and looked towards the Little Chemist. "Thank you, dear monsieur, thank you. There is a silver night- lamp in my room; I wish it to be yours. Adieu, my friend."
The Little Chemist tried to speak, but could not. He stooped and kissed Valmond's hand, as though he thought him still a prince, and not the impostor which the British rifles had declared him. To the end, the coterie would act according to the light of their own eyes.
"It is now but a step—to anything," repeated Valmond.
The Cure understood him at last. "The longest journey is short by the light of the grave," he responded gently.
Presently the door opened, admitting the avocat. Valmond calmly met
Monsieur Garon's pained look, and courteously whispered his name.
"Your Excellency has been basely treated," said the avocat, his lip trembling.
"On the contrary, well, dear monsieur," answered the ruined adventurer.
"Destiny plays us all. Think: I die the death of a soldier, and my
crusade was a soldier's vision of conquest. I have paid the price.
I have—"