Luc blushed; he was conscious of his frail appearance, of his occasional cough, of his languid movements.
“Yes, I was ill at Eger,” he admitted reluctantly, “after the retreat from Prague.”
The other two men were silent. By that retreat M. de Belleisle’s name had become accursed through France: in ten days he had lost nearly twenty-two thousand men. The scandal and horror of it had brought M. de Fleury to patch a hasty peace with Austria.
“And do you recall,” added Luc sadly, “Hippolyte de Seytres, Marquis de Caumont, whom I wrote of to you very often? He was my ‘sous lieutenant.’ I heard last week that he had died in Prague just before the garrison capitulated in January.”
“I am sorry for de Caumont!” exclaimed the old Marquis, thinking of the father.
“He was only eighteen,” said Luc, “and a sweet nature. M. d’Espagnac, also, who came from Provence, died in my arms. I became delirious with death.”
“It was very terrible?” questioned his father gravely.
“Ah, it was of all campaigns the most disastrous, the most unfortunate. Let me not recall those black nights and days—those marches with hunger and cold beside us, the disorder, the misery—the poor remnant of a glorious army that at last reached the frontier of France—leaving our blood and bones thick on the fields of Germany.” His eyes and voice flashed and a clear colour dyed his cheek. “Belleisle is punished,” he added. “His pride is cast down, his war ended in failure. But is he humiliated enough for all the lives he so wantonly flung away?”
“They say Cardinal Fleury cannot sleep at night because of it,” remarked the old Marquis, “that he always sees snow and blood about him. But you have returned to us, my son.”
Luc gave him a long, soft, mournful look, then glanced at his brother Joseph.