He came back to me at last, and flung himself in a chair, still looking before him with a gray sadness in his eyes, as he said low to himself:
“Poor Marie!”
In my confidence I felt I was victor over myself; but the words rasped me somehow, and I moved impatiently from my position.
“You are getting the blues, Jean. ’Tis this city of horrors into which we have come. Rouse yourself, man! We are on the threshold now.”
“Yes, on the threshold—of what?” he asked, but still as if speaking to himself. “We are on the threshold, and the door will open soon—but where will it lead? We are giving our lands, our wealth, our lives, all that we hold dear, for a dream—and life is dear to me, Gaspard, not so much for its own sake, but for the sake of her who loves me.”
“We should have thought of that before, and there is still time to draw back.” There was a bitterness in my tone I could not conceal, and a faint flush reddened his cheeks.
“You are right to spur me,” he said, as he drained his cup and rose to his feet, “and here comes our messenger.”
The Switzer came in with his heavy stride, and, saluting, stood dumbly before us.
“You have given the letter?” I asked.
“Excellency.”