“You at least, M. le Maréchal, are not fit to leave Prague.”
M. de Belleisle narrowed his clever eyes.
“While I can draw a breath to form a sentence I do not resign command again,” he said with cold passion.
The Duke bowed.
“That is as you please, Monsieur.”
Their common responsibility, their mutual anxiety for a moment obscured their jealous rivalry. M. de Broglie could not restrain a little exclamation of despair.
“We shall not get ten regiments through!” he cried.
The Maréchal answered, rigid with secret pain and mental anguish—
“No more words—the fiat is there; we shall leave Prague to-morrow. God have mercy on the poor devils in the ranks—fine men too,” he added in spite of himself, “and, by Heaven, we might have stormed Vienna if I had had a chance!”
“You will hold the council here?” asked M. de Broglie.