The valet obeyed and again drew the beautiful curtains over the closed, barred window.
The Maréchal cast down the map on top of the letter from France and asked for wine. When it was brought M. de Broglie put it aside in silence, but M. de Belleisle drank heavily, then dropped into his cushions with a sigh of physical pain.
When the servant had left, the younger man spoke; he had recovered his composure and something of his self-confident manner.
“Do you mean to obey these orders, Monsieur?”
“I am a Maréchal de France, Monsieur le Duc, and I obey the orders of France.”
Crippled by gout as he was he managed to sit upright, half supporting himself against the carved back of the couch.
“M. de Fleury speaks for France—you have been too long in Prague—abandon the town and join Maillelois, so you may make a dash on Vienna,” he gasped. “Vienna!—we shall see hell sooner.”
With a quivering hand he pressed his handkerchief to his pallid lips, then wiped the damp of pain from his brow.
“But it shall be done—do not think, Monsieur, that I shirk the duty. France has spoken. You will make ready for a council to-night.”
M. de Broglie shrugged his shoulders.