“Still these brothers!” cried Vincent, impatiently.
“And who should be inquired of concerning them, if not you? You took them to France; you left them there—”
“I was sent here by Bonaparte—put on the deputation by his express command. If not, I should not now have been here—I should have remembered you only as a child, and—”
“But Placide and Isaac! Suppose Leclerc and Rochambeau both killed—suppose Madame Leclerc entering once more into her brother’s presence, a mourning widow—what would Bonaparte do with Placide and Isaac? I am sure you have no comfort to give me, or you would not so evade what I ask.”
“I declare, I protest you are mistaken. Bonaparte is everything that is noble, and gracious, and gentle.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Nay, why not? Have I not always said so? and you have delighted to hear me say so.”
“I should delight to believe it now. I will believe it; but yet, if he were really noble, how should this quarrel have arisen? For, if ever man was noble, and gracious, and gentle, my father is. If two such men come to open defiance, whose is the crime, and wherein does it lie?”
“If the world fall to pieces, Aimée, there can be no doubt of Bonaparte’s greatness. What majesty he carries with him, through all his conquests! How whole nations quail under his magnificent proclamations!”
“Are they really fine? I have seen but few; and they—”