"You are very young, sir," he said, "to have the right to bring such accusations against an old man whose actions, life, and even name are unknown to you."
"That is true, sir," the Count answered, nobly. "Pardon any insult my words may have conveyed."
"Why should I be angry with you?" he continued, in a sad voice; "a child born yesterday, whose eyes opened amid songs and fêtes, whose life, which counts but a few days, has been spent gently and calmly in the peace and prosperity of that beloved France which I weep for every day."
"Who are you, sir?" he asked.
"Who I am?" the old man said, bitterly. "I am one of those crushed Titans who sat in the Convention of 1793."
The Count fell back a pace, letting fall the hand he had taken.
"Oh!" he said.
The exile looked at him searchingly.
"Enough of this," he said, raising his head and assuming a firm and resolute tone; "you are in our hands, sir, any resistance will be useless; so listen to our propositions."
The Count shrugged his shoulders.