When Dame Capoulade had withdrawn, after bringing them their wine and casting a few logs upon the fire, La Boulaye turned his back to the hearth and confronted his host.
“Why are you not with the army, Charlot?” he asked in a tone which made the question sound like a demand.
“Have they not told you,” rejoined the other airily, engrossed in filling the glasses.
“I understand you were sent here to recover from a wound you received three months ago at Jemappes, and to take charge of other invalided soldiers. But seemingly, your invalids do not number more than a half-dozen out of the fifty or sixty men that are with you. How is it then, that you do not return with these to Dumouriez?”
“Because I can serve France better here,” answered Charlot, “and at the same time enrich myself and my followers.”
“In short,” returned La Boulaye coldly, “because you have degenerated from a soldier into a brigand.”
Charlot looked up, and for just a second his glance was not without uneasiness. Then he laughed. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it into a corner, throwing his hat after it.
“It was ever your way to take extreme views, Caron,” he observed, with a certain whimsical regret of tone. “That, no doubt, is what has made a statesman of you. You had chosen more wisely had you elected to serve the Republic with your sword instead. Come, my friend,” and he pointed to the wine, “let us pledge the Nation.”
La Boulaye shrugged his shoulders slightly, and sighed. In the end he came forward and took the wine.
“Long live the Republic!” was Charlot's toast, and with a slight inclination of the head La Boulaye drained his glass.