"My uncle is weeping over the dead English, Bellenger," said Philippe. "It always moves him to tears to see how few of them die."
"We can make no such complaint against Frenchmen in these days, monsieur," the court painter answered. "I see you have my young charge here, enjoying the gravestones with you;—a pleasing change after the unmarked trenches of France. With your permission I will take him away."
"Have I the honor, Monsieur Bellenger, of saluting the man who brought the king out of prison?" the old man inquired.
Again Bellenger made the marquis a deep reverence, which modestly disclaimed any exploit.
"When was this done?—Who were your helpers? Where are you taking him?"
Bellenger lifted his eyebrows at the fanatical royalist.
"I wish I had had a hand in it!" spoke Philippe de Ferrier.
"I am taking this boy to America, monsieur the marquis," the painter quietly answered.
"But why not to one of his royal uncles?"
"His royal uncles," repeated Bellenger. "Pardon, monsieur the marquis, but did I say he had any royal uncles?"