“M. de Broglie,” he said strongly, “you had better have been dead than have brought the army into Prague.”
The younger General paled now, but raised his eyebrows haughtily; his right hand closed over the smooth red silk tassels of his sword.
“This is an old subject, Monsieur,” he answered coldly. “I am ready to answer for my conduct at Versailles—I have told you so before.”
“Versailles!” exclaimed the Maréchal grimly. “There are not many of us, Monsieur, who will see Versailles again.”
M. de Broglie rose to his feet; the powerful firelight lent a false colour to his face.
“What is your news from France, Maréchal?” he asked softly.
With a fierce gesture M. de Belleisle cast down the letter he held.
“This—we are to vacate Prague and join Maillelois at Eger—on the instant.”
“It is not possible,” stammered M. de Broglie. The Maréchal interrupted him passionately—
“My orders are there. The old man is in his dotage. Thirty leagues to Eger along unbroken ice—a retreat in this weather, when the men are dying under my eyes even in shelter.”