“I wish I were bound for Paris,” remarked the young Colonel, M. de Biron.
One of the captains lightly echoed his wish; the other glanced at the lieutenant and said in a very pleasing voice—
“No, M. le Duc, wish for a battle, which would suit us all better.”
M. de Biron smiled.
“You are very sanguine, Luc.”
“How sanguine, Monsieur?”
“You speak as if war was what it used to be in the days of Amathis de Gaul: forays, single combats, pitched battles, one cause—reward, honour, glory.”
The faint smile deepened on Luc de Clapiers’ face; he made no reply, but the lieutenant flushed quickly and answered—
“Pardon me, Monsieur, but it seems to me like that still.”
The young Duke seated himself on one of the wooden benches and crossed his slender feet.