"Do you believe all this?" asked De Commercy.
"Stay till you hear the postscript from his own hand:"
"'My dear cousin: You must pardon my egotistic ambition, if I do not allow the siege of Gab to be prosecuted without me. I am very desirous of glory, and perchance your laurels have contributed to my indisposition. At any rate, before you take a third fortress, I must have my opportunity of capturing two. So, instead of attacking Gab, come to Embrun to the relief of"
"'Yours, besieged by illness, V. A.'"
"I repeat my question—do you believe in his illness?"
"And you—do you believe in his ambition?"
"Why not? He avows it openly."
"For which very reason, it has no existence. Victor Amadeus is too crafty to make such an avowal in good faith. He never says what he thinks, nor does he ever think what he says. No, no—my poor little leaflets of laurel would have given him no uneasiness, had they not been plucked on French soil!—But we must wait and see. The main point is to retreat to Embrun."
"And Gab? Will you retract your gift of its empty houses to the
Ravens?"
"No. My instructions were not to besiege Gab. It surrendered before they reached me, and I shall leave it to the soldiery. As for you and me, we must hasten to Embrun to try to break the seal of my cousin's impassible countenance, and read a few of his thoughts. Did I not tell you that we would march no farther than Embrun?"