"Why, just as they say," replied the young man.
"You hesitated?" rejoined the marquis; and, gazing at Landri, with infinite affection in his clear blue eyes, he continued: "I understand your pallor now. The sacrifice was very painful. For it is a sacrifice that you have made to us, that you have made to me," he added, not realizing how true his words were.
The "Émigré" had been speaking with all the passion of a partisan, who, being unable to fight the government except in thought, indulges in that pastime with all his heart. Now he made way for the father.
"Thanks," he said, and pressed his son's hand. "But, do not deceive yourself," he continued; "it is for France as well that you have made this sacrifice. You remember that I told you also the other day that I understood you only too well, that I too had heard, in my youth, the voice of the tempter: 'One does not serve the government, one serves France.' One of our princes said it at the trial of the traitor Bazaine: 'France was involved!'—That is why I allowed you to enter Saint-Cyr. Besides, to wear the sword is no degradation. Only follow the logic of your own idea, and you will meet mine, for the truth is one.—Once more, what was your object in putting on the uniform? To serve your country.—What service could you render her that would be more complete, more serviceable than this—to maintain intact, before the eyes of all men, the type of the soldier-chevalier? The chevalier, you see, is the ideal code of regulations, always permanent under new forms, and summed up in the words: the flag, military honor, the good of the service. It is the Chevalier whom the Revolution pursues with its hatred to-day, under the cape or the cloak, as of yore under the coat of the bodyguard or the light-horse. It was against him that it invented the abominable phrase, 'a national army,' which means, 'no army at all, but the common people armed with muskets, pikes and cannon!'—Well! by refusing to march against a church you have asserted once more the permanence of the Chevalier type. In the old days, on their reception they were presented with a sword in the shape of a cross. Admirable symbol of our ancestors—force ruled by faith, that is to say, by justice and mercy! That is what the Cross is, justice tempered by mercy. You have proclaimed aloud that the Soldier and the Chevalier are but one. You have made yourself the example. Therein is the whole of military duty. You and those men who have previously done as you have done have postponed the hour when France will cease to have an army, by steadfast adherence to principle. You know the value that I attach to such adherence. You understand now that one must sometimes lay down life in order to keep intact the germ of the future—principle, always principle! That is what the ancients did when they left their cities but took their gods with them. I have always loved that symbolism. It is Christian even in its paganism! I have an idea that in the future you will agree better with your old father. And then, too, you will help him grow old. You are my witness that I have never complained. I have never attempted to impose upon you the exactions of my selfishness. But why should I not confess it? Grandchamp has sometimes seemed very empty to me, and the house on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré—very empty. My friends are going, one after another, witness my poor Charles. At my age one is weary of burying, weary of surviving. You will help me to drive away these black devils. We will not part any more.—But what's the matter?"
"The matter is," the young man replied, "that I cannot bear to hear you talk like this."
He had made a gesture to stop the marquis, and he let a cry of pain escape him, of which he had at least an explanation to give, although it was not the true one. Whatever the cost, he felt that he must interrupt an effusion which caused him too much suffering, and a declaration of principles which were so unwittingly but so fiendishly ironical when addressed to him, the child of sin, the nobleman by imposture. It was necessary to have done with it.
"No," he insisted, "I cannot. This life together that you speak of, you will not care to live with me when I have told you what I am bound to tell you. The other day, during our conversation in the forest, to which you just referred, I spoke to you about a marriage. It is going to take place. Since last Tuesday I have been engaged—"
"Engaged?" cried the marquis. "Don't tell me, Landri, that it's to that Madame Olier."
"It is to Madame Olier. I have asked her for her hand. She has promised it to me. We have exchanged our troths. She will be my wife."
"You asked her for her hand?" M. de Claviers exclaimed. "Then you knew—"