“Commandant,” said the marquis, collecting all his strength, and still holding Marie’s hand, “I count on your honor to send the news of my death to my young brother, who is now in London. Write him that if he wishes to obey my last injunction he will never bear arms against his country—neither must he abandon the king’s service.”
“It shall be done,” said Hulot, pressing the hand of the dying man.
“Take them to the nearest hospital,” cried Corentin.
Hulot took the spy by the arm with a grip that left the imprint of his fingers on the flesh.
“Out of this camp!” he cried; “your business is done here. Look well at the face of Commander Hulot, and never find yourself again in his way if you don’t want your belly to be the scabbard of his blade—”
And the older soldier flourished his sabre.
“That’s another of the honest men who will never make their way,” said Corentin to himself when he was some distance from the guard-room.
The marquis was still able to thank his gallant adversary by a look marking the respect which all soldiers feel for loyal enemies.
In 1827 an old man accompanied by his wife was buying cattle in the market-place of Fougeres. Few persons remembered that he had killed a hundred or more men, and that his former name was Marche-a-Terre. A person to whom we owe important information about all the personages of this drama saw him there, leading a cow, and was struck by his simple, ingenuous air, which led her to remark, “That must be a worthy man.”